Bound Within My Heart
by Voodoosgirl
Summary: Steve and Bucky have moved from friends to lovers but the relationship faces mounting pressure from medication side effects, Bucky's guilt, disagreements about missions and ill-timed late-night calls from Tony Stark. Bucky finally breaks and heads to Russia on a quest for redemption that brings him face-to-face with his own violent past.
1. Chapter 1 The Call

**Bound Within My Heart**

Voodoosgirl

 **Summary: Canon Divergent:** A year has passed since Bucky came out of cryostasis in Wakanda. The trigger words are neutralized thanks to Mother, the Black Widow operative that planted them nearly seventy years earlier. His self-imposed mission of atonement stumbles forward wrapped in a host of PTSD symptoms, a seizure disorder compliments of Hydra's mind wipes and a Voice in his head that he has come to tolerate, for the most part.  
Steve and Bucky have moved from friends to lovers but the relationship faces mounting pressure from medication side effects, Bucky's insecurities, disagreements about missions and ill-timed late-night calls from Tony Stark. Bucky finally breaks and heads to Russia on a quest for redemption that brings him face-to-face with a powerful oligarch and his own violent past.

Notes: Hello Dear Readers!  
This story picks up where "Sometimes Darkness Will Show You the Light" left off. I plan on weaving in backstory so this can be read as a stand-alone. I work hard to post on a regular schedule. Feedback and constructive critiques are most welcome! Thank you! 3

 **THE CALL**

 _ _"You used to have balls Soldier."__ The hissed comment tickled his eardrum.

"I got balls, pal. Don't you worry about that." Bucky mumbled the words against the lip of a bottle, "I got all kind of balls." The tilt of his head back, followed by his raised hand, let the cold liquid flow into his mouth. The smooth creaminess washed across his tongue, caressed his throat and sent a flush of warmth to his skin.

The yellow-hued dimness of a dingy safe-house crept across his memory; broken bones, blood and sweat, pain that shook even his enhanced body. Angry Russian words from faceless men forcing the harsh taste of cheap vodka across his lips as rough hands pressed down on his body.

He swigged down another deep gulp.

 _"_ _ _Really? In case you haven't noticed, said balls are literally frozen to the hood of a pickup truck, Stolichnaya vodka tucked between your legs instead of Steven Grant Rogers, and you're contemplating throwing your inebriated ass at the feet of Iron Man. Those balls are shriveling by the second."__

Bucky shook his head. It helped clear the snow from his hair but didn't do much to dislodge his tormenting internal monologue. It never did. A muttered response "Shoulda done this in Siberia, way overdue," went ignored by his inner companion. He brushed soaked hair from his face and raised the night vision goggles to study the sprawling complex below his vantage point on the side of an old access road. The left to right then back again scans lingered at one spot, a visual speed bump on the path of his self-imposed quest for atonement. The giant __****A****__ on the side of the building was apparent to his eye despite the fog of two quarts of vodka and a cascade of falling snow.

 _"_ _ _Look at you, the pathetic embodiment of existential angst aspiring to a noble yet futile self-inflicted punishment while wallowing in a heaping pile of paranoia. A far cry from our glory days raining down unapologetic chaos without a free-will induced thought crossing your mind. Mother would be digging in her trunk for her favorite stun prod. You remember her, right? That saint of a woman who helped create the Soldier nurtured your glorious career, protected you from that red-faced rival, Alexei Shostokov from the Red Room all those years. She's the one you dumped in that wasteland prison a few months ago. You ungrateful cur."__

"Correction. Not Mother." He tapped the bottle to his temple. "Gieta Sokolov. Black Widow extraordinaire, mistress of the Red Room, master of psychological conditioning, the creator and the destroyer of the words in my head." A raised bottle salute towards the Northern sky, his slurred speech dampened by the falling snow, "May you rot in that puke green cell for whatever years you have left. Not a lot since you're an old vulture of what 90 years? Good, hope you live to 120 stuck in that shit-hole where I left you." A head tilted back let the final drops of vodka slide down his throat. He lobbed the bottle to land silently in the nearby woods.

 _"_ _ _Agent Sokolov didn't un-trigger your brain so you could addle it with cheap alcohol and freeze to death five miles from that quaint house the Captain retrofitted as a Nomad lair. If you die out here, Wilson's going to take your bed, your Captain America sleepwear, the stash of Thin Mints, and all your guns. Knives too. Greedy bastard."__

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut against winter's bite of wind that tore across the hilltop, pulling the tears that come from the cold, he tugged his hood onto his head. The numbing wash of alcohol dulled the frigid temperatures tamped down his hearing and pulled his vision into a darkened blur of mist and shadows. It did nothing to quiet the Voice in his head.

His reconnaissance of the New Avengers Facility had devolved into an exercise in self-loathing fueled by guilt, comforted by the cold and drowning in enough alcohol to put Wilson under the table for a week. A fact that brought on a perverse sense of pride. He replayed the events from three nights previous that lead to his frozen midnight vigil:

—

"There, right there." Bucky's graveled rasp urged Steve onward, rough-skinned hands maneuvered his willing body to gain deeper penetration. Metal fingertips left a fleeting scar of disrupted flesh down Steve's back; it dragged out a low hiss of pain. The slap of flesh colliding, mingling breaths and moans, the rhythmic complaint of the bed with their ever-quickening movements filled his mind and pushed aside the Voice's relentless commentary, a few moments of reprieve. They were very nearly at their climax when the phone rang and kept ringing. And ringing.  
Bucky's groan reverberated against Steve's neck, "For fuck's sake, it's 3 AM. Who the hell is calling you at 3 AM."  
Steve tried to keep going but the moment was lost as Bucky squirmed to free himself from beneath him, he rolled towards the phone, "Us. Someone is calling us. We all live here, remember, you, me, Natasha and Sam."

"One big happy family." Bucky threw a hand in the air, "I'm not taking any calls, thanks since I'm still wanted in a hundred and seventeen countries." The anxiety that bubbled under his every waking and not-waking minute urged him into his clothes. The ever-present Beretta tucked in the back of his jeans; he settled on the floor, knees drawn up, fake-ignoring Steve's side of the conversation which started with, "Tony," and ended exactly nine minutes later with an emphatic "Stark." He was unable to get another word in between.

Their silence hung for seconds longer than it should have.

Steve turned on the lamp by the bed, and started, "That was Stark."

"No shit."

"Right. He got the Hydra data from the Boston mission. The data you retrieved. He wants to talk."

"At 3 AM? He calls you to talk about a data dump we did three months ago. I thought he was a genius. It took him three months to figure it out?"

"He wants to meet." Steve didn't miss the subtle tension that grew across Bucky's shoulders, "With me. To talk."

"And you're gonna go? After all this time, and what happened, the Accords are still in place. He could just as easily take you in."

"He's not going to take me in." Steve pulled on his jeans and crossed to kneel in front of Bucky, he brushed his hair back from his face, "We dumped those files into his servers remember, we trusted him to do the right thing, and he has. There are good leads there he wants to talk about it."

"Give me a break." Bucky ducked his head from Steve's hand, "Three months is a lifetime in my world. What was left of Hydra went underground, anything worth following should've been dealt with days maybe a week after we dumped it. Not three months. No. You can't go. I don't trust him."

Steve wrapped his hands around Bucky's bare feet, "I do." He studied the worried look then added, "I'm not saying a word about you if that's what this is about."

"No. Not about me." He let his head fall back against the wall. "Where and when? I'll track you. Got your back. I won't let him take you. I promise I'll kill him if he touches you."

"No killing. You swore an oath remember, besides I can take care of myself."

"Bullshit. It's my job to watch your back. Where?"

"At the Avengers Facility," Steve ran his hands up Bucky's calves to rest on both knees, "Tomorrow morning."

"New York City? Tomorrow? We'll need Fury's chopper."

A long deep breath helped Steve steady his hands as he slid them onto Bucky's chest, searching for the heartbeat that thrilled beneath his fingertips. He braced for the response, "Ah, no. Not the city. It's in Upstate New York. About fifteen minutes from here. Stark lives right down the road."

 _"_ _ _There are only three good reasons for him to call at 3 AM, somebody died, somebody needs to die, and phone sex. Maybe four reasons; clandestine planning to give you up to your arch enemy but that violates your anxiety-driven OCD rule of only numbers divisible by three, so we'll forget that last one for now. It does need to be said again, why the hell didn't the good Captain tell you that Stark lived so close you might have haggled with him over the arugula at the local mini-mart?"__

"Not Captain," Bucky mumbled and flopped back on the hood, blinking against the falling snow, arms spread wide, chewing on the inside of his lip. He launched into a fair imitation of Steve's tone and cadence, yet laced with an undercurrent of sarcasm, "You were so vulnerable, Buck, unstable, you ran when Sharon and Fury contacted us, that old Widow handler from your past kidnapped you, tortured you. Pal, you fucking tried to kill yourself. I wasn't gonna tell you that Stark's complex was five miles away. Not until you were better. I'm sorry, but I did what I thought was best to protect you."

The groan that followed was as much a comment on Steve's excuse as it was for the effort to sit up. The slide from the hood fell into a stumble, he caught himself on the fender and steadied the spin in his head. "Fuck, let's get this over with, hiding behind Steve all this time, thinking I could avoid paying the price for the shit I did." He dropped his head to the cool of the windshield, "Stark deserves this for what I did to him. I deserve this. What an idiot, thinking Steve and I could, you know, be together. Acting like nothing happened." He rolled his head to cool the other cheek on the glass. "You're right; I hate it when you're right, no balls. Gonna do it. Give myself up. Let Stark have what he wants." He held onto the truck as he tripped his way towards the driver's door.

 _"_ _ _Soldat, You're a free man now, free will, free samples, free to be...you and me. All those decisions now on you alone, so much responsibility. The smorgasbord of life, making choices, living with the consequences of ignoring the sage advice of SGR, abhorring the scolding looks of the Good Widow, mocking Sam-the-Other-Boyfriend-Wilson`s cruel yet insightful commentary.__  
 _ _You. Are. A. Free. Man. Or child as the case may be argued.__  
 _ _Remember last week, your snarking insistence on trying an all-you-can-eat buffet while scoffing at their advice. Who knew nine trips to the shrimp boat coupled with six bowls of mac and cheese and 12 jalapeño poppers would end in super-serum puking? Points for keeping it all divisible by three, at least your OCD numbers fetish remains intact. A perfect example of free-choice without heeding good counsel. I particularly enjoyed Romanova holding your hair off your face in the men's room while protective Steve Rogers stood guard. Glory days indeed."__

The firm tap of his forehead to the door didn't' help him fathom what the Voice was getting at or dislodge its manic advice.

 _"_ _ _Short answer: Bad idea to face Stark now. You're drunk. Bad form."__

Bucky nodded as he climbed into the front seat, the fumbled search for the keys ended with them on the floor. "Too late, I'm doing this, and I'm not gonna take advice from a damn auditory hallucination." A sprawl across the seat, he pawed the floor in the darkness.

 _"_ _ _Or this is all about your dick. You can't get it up so, therefore, distract Steve with this piss-poor plan of surrendering to Stark."__

"I am not discussing my sex life with the imaginary Voice in my head. Sorry." His fingers snagged the keys.

 _"_ _ _So I'm right. You're being avoidant."__

"Of you, yes. Of Steve, no." The engine whined its protested start.

 _"_ _ _We haven't tried all the Ben & Jerry's flavors yet."__

"We?" He mumbled, "There is no we but me and Steve."

Bucky sped towards the main entrance to Tony Stark's New Avengers Facility. The truck's rear end slipped and slid on the ice-covered roads, bouncing against the snowbanks as he headed for the fate he believed was inevitable. The headlights danced their jigging reflection off the narrowed roadway as he jerked the wheel to compensate for every slipping loss of traction. Wet streaks of sleet streamed sideways off the windshield, pushed by the clicking, rhythmic motion of the wiper blades. His thoughts fell under the mesmerizing spell of alcohol, snow, and darkness.

 _"_ _ _Then think of Steve. You'll never see him again. Never feel his gorgeous firm body lying on top of you, he'll never use the handcuffs; remember how hot that was even if he fake locked them just to be respectful of your PTSD. You won't ever hear him groan your name when he comes, never feel him inside of you again…"__

"Enough!" The sudden motion of slammed on brakes, lurched the truck sideways to spin a full circle and a half when the tires refused to grip the snow-packed roadway. It pinballed back and forth, bouncing off the remnants of plowed snow, slamming through a line of mailboxes to finally come to rest perched on a snowbank yards from the facility's front gates.

Bucky gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding into his temples, he sucked in a halting breath and pressed his forehead to his hands. "Nothing's gonna shut you up is it? Not getting drunk, not sleeping, not meds, not sex, nothing." His metal fist closed and shot towards the dash, only to stop a hair from connecting. A shiver tore through him, he reached into the glove compartment and dragged out the Beretta. The cold metal clung to his flesh hand; his finger caressed the trigger for a heartbeat, so familiar, comforting; he tossed the gun to the floor. His whispered, eyes closed begging request, "Please stop torturing me. Please let me go'" was futile. He let his head fall back against the headrest, "Never thought I'd miss Hydra; miss having my brain fried into nothingness but it was the only thing that shut you up."

 _"_ _ _Hydra's dead and gone. Thanks to your self-righteous mess in Boston that masqueraded as a pathetic first step at redemption, the one true family you've had for seventy years are scattered to the wind. Let's face it Wilson called it. The Barnes Redemptive Mission Debacle. You still owe Fury one hundred and fifty-five million dollars for the damages to the historic underground trolley system there."__

Bucky swallowed hard as he raised his head. Even as his own thoughts rose and faded they were inextricably wrapped around the Voice's monologue. Like some parasitic invading species that burrowed into his brain to curl its insidious tendrils around each delicate nerve. The Voice wouldn't go away. No hope for ever extricating himself. He pushed it aside and did what he felt was the next right thing. He slid down the snowbank and stumbled up to the gates of the New Avengers Facility. The surveillance camera spun its lens towards his approach, he hesitated, then pressed a metal finger to the call button and waited.

 _"_ _ _Speaking of being a screw-up. Fury's still pissed about the chopper you stole; Wilson__ __bet Romanova that you wouldn't last three straight months on the medications and Nomad is already looking for a new boyfriend. You heard him whispering on the phone; the jerk, he knows how paranoid you are. He's interviewing your replacement with you sitting right there. Oh, and Wilson's going to pitch a fit over your using the truck as a slalom sports vehicle - again."__

"Buck, you here?" Steve's hand slid across the cold sheets, the empty space next to him crept into his dreams and pulled at him to wake whenever Bucky left their bed for too long. The door was open enough to let in the hallway light, he searched the shadows of the room. There was no form curled in the corner, no figure staring out of the window.

His last remnants of sleep were quickly chased away by the intrusion of a phone. A rush of worry pushed him to scramble to answer. The caller left no room for formalities and launched into their terse and loud statement. The click to end the tirade could be heard across the bedroom.

Natasha and Sam stood in the doorway staring at Steve as he stared at the phone.

Sam opened, "Let me guess, he's been picked up jaywalking and the cops want his parents to come and get him. I say let him learn his lesson and leave in the slammer overnight. Nothing like the drunk tank to teach a kid a lesson."

A well-placed elbow from Natasha ended his sentence.

"Very funny, not appreciated." Steve jumped up with a sheet wrapped around himself. "Do you mind?" He waved them out of the room.

She offered a more supportive approach from the hallway, "Where is he calling from and how much trouble is he in?"

Sam threw in over her shoulder, "And how much damage to the truck?" Which won him another elbow.

"That was Stark. Bucky's at the Avengers Facility demanding to be let in."

Dark grey snow clouds gave way to a stripe of brightening blue as the morning light crept into a new day. Bucky knelt before the looming metal gates where he'd finally stumbled to his knees after spending far too long humiliating himself at the doors of the Avengers Facility. In the hours he'd paced and prowled, demanded and begged no one had spoken or responded to his presence. Only the blinking red light and the faint whirr of the camera that followed his every move kept him company in his quest to see Stark.

Time passed him by as his legs went numb from the cold and awkward position, wet tendrils of hair covered his downturned face, and snow soaked clothing clung heavy to his skin. Even the Voice had gone silent, the one upside to his ill-thought out plan of surrender. Bucky shivered quietly, his body and mind in a welcomed state of numbness, he never heard Steve drive up, or call his name. The flinch was slight when familiar arms encircled his shoulders in the kind of possessive embrace only Steve was allowed to give him.

"Buck, what are doing here?" Steve buried his face against his neck as he knelt behind him. "This isn't the way."

A shiver shook his body with the first muscle twitch he'd made in hours. The whispered words close to his ear, warmed the deep cold of his skin, "Come home, Buck. Let's go home." The coarse hairs of Steve's beard rubbed along his cheek, pulling a shaky breath from the prickling intrusion. He wrapped his hands around Steve's.

"How did you know?" Bucky's voice stuttered through clenched teeth.

Steve rubbed hard along his arms, pulled him to his feet so they faced one another, "He called me. Saw you on the surveillance camera."

Bucky turned towards the gate, "Why didn't he come out, face me. I want to do this. I need to do this. I killed them, time to face the music."

"He's not here. Staff saw you. They called him. He called me." A tug on his sleeve pulled him towards the car, a protective arm around his waist, Steve didn't hide his touch from whatever prying eyes might be around. "Let's get you home, warmed up." He let a long hard stare linger on the surveillance camera before taking the driver's seat. The iris of the lens spun to refocus, the blinking red light flashing its subliminal message as he headed back down the road towards home.

Bucky sighed and leaned on the window when they passed the truck teetering on the snowbank, "Wilson's gonna be pissed."

"He'll get over it. You're keeping him young. Always pissing him off, otherwise, he'd be in the recliner channel surfing." A subdued shared laugh came to an end when they saw Natasha wave them down at the airport road.

"Sorry boys, change in plans," She tossed two bottles of water in Bucky's lap, "Stark called. There's a hot lead on a shipment of Chitauri based weapons heading into Cartagena, Columbia the quinjet is gassed up and ready to go, I've got your go-bags in my car."

Bucky stared straight ahead and muttered, "This is payback," as they followed Natasha to the tarmac.

Steve added, "Without a doubt."He kept his worry close as he glanced towards Bucky and replayed the call from Stark, "Your boy is stalking me, Rogers. When I'm ready to take what I'm due it'll be on my damn terms, not his. I don't care about his quest for atonement. Call him off before I toss a net over him and ship him off to the Raft."


	2. Chapter 2 I heart Cartagena

"Tripadvisor says wear white while visiting South America. White reflects the sun and helps to keep you cooler." Sam's heartfelt reading of the travel guide he'd pulled up on his phone did nothing to help Natasha's mood. His rooftop surveillance spot had one positive; he had five bars on his reception.

"You know I can hurt you. Right?" Her threat was quiet not because she didn't have enthusiasm for it. Her low grumbled statement was said less than five feet away from one of the targets of their day-long reconnaissance. "The least Stark could have done is given us white T-shirts."

"With our names on them?" Steve offered absently. He scanned the festive crowd although their two targets were known, easy to spot and were in the company of Natasha shopping for souvenirs. He never turned off his sense of what could go wrong.

Natasha feigned interest in the bejeweled bikinis hanging along the pale yellow wall outside one of the gift shops lining the tourist-packed plaza; she fingered the dangling beads and let the targets pass. Her attempt to blow a limp sweat-soaked wisp of hair from her face was met with humidity driven resistance. Her whispered comment "I hate Stark," drew a huffed laugh from Sam and a sigh from Steve.

Bucky maintained his usual resistant comm-link silence.

"Beebee, come look at this!" The Rubenesque woman's voice told a history of smoke-filled bars and a long affair with straight-up no ice whiskey. She waved a short-fingered hand in the air, a generalized summoning gesture that anyone in the crowd of cruise ship patrons around her could have mistaken as a call to her side. She never looked up from the object of her discovery. "Beebee! Where are you?"

The question thrown into the outdoor market appeared rhetorical to her shopping companions until a svelte-looking figure dressed in a white sundress and too-large for her face sunglasses slid up to her side, "Maymay, I'm right here." Her chin nested conveniently on the bare-skinned shoulder to peer at her companion's newly found treasure. "What the hell is that?"

"This my dear is what we have been looking for all our lives. Luck." She picked up the heavy faux-bronze replica of the sculpture in the Plaza de Santo Domingo and ran her fingers over the ample curves and dips, allowing one pad to linger on the rounded breast. "This my love is Gertrude. Our own private version to bring home with us. We'll find the real version soon. I have the maps right here." She patted the bright-colored woven bag that hung across her body.

"Of course we will, I have complete faith in your navigational skills." Beebee cooed close to her ear, followed by a peck of her lips against her cheek; she disappeared into the cooler depths of the market.

Maymay cradled her intended purchase with the kind of awe that most tourists reserved for the emerald shops, she made her way to the vendor. Her flowing tangerine on white linen skirt brushed past the black-clad leg of Natasha browsing the "I Heart Cartagena" T-shirts. The faint brush of Natasha's hand across her back drew nothing more than a quick glimpse over her shoulder and a soft smile. Something Nat easily returned before checking her phone. "Well, I've tagged her. Now we see if it sticks to linen."

Bucky stood with his feet unevenly placed on the red clay tile roof of the tallest building overlooking the plaza where their targets had stalled in their sightseeing. His assigned by Steve location was a good vantage point, sure; but he protested the sight lines weren't optimal, and the comfort level for a long haul was lacking. Any further objection at the assignment was quickly pulled back by the smirk it evoked from Wilson. Bucky shook his head and dutifully climbed the stairs then scaled the delicate tiled roof to access the peak. His final comment to Steve as he headed into the building was "This sucks."

The Winter Soldier could kneel on a flat tar-paper roof for days if needed. Torrential rain, unrelenting sun, frigid cold; without food or water; hurt or whole; didn't matter. The distinct thick material was strangely comforting. Black grainy surfaces, soft and hot in the sun, silently giving to his steps. Firm but still forgiving in the cold. He'd spent countless hours studying the nuanced textures and colors, learning the distinct odor emitted in various weather conditions, all while waiting for a target. His drill-down study of roofing materials served no real purpose except to bring him better companionship than the Voice on those long stretches of nothingness that finally came to an explosive end with a single pull of the trigger. The sensation of his knees or ass pressed into the soft give of a tar and asphalt roof filled him with a calmness that settled his focus down to only one thing. The mission. The brittle clay tiles had nothing on the lay of good flat tar roof.

They had their hasty assignment this time around. Stark's mission. His newly found sense of freedom balked at that phrase: Stark's mission. The no-plan, how-dare-you-pound-on-my- gate, Barnes-you're-a-complete-loser mission. Bucky rolled his vibranium shoulder. A move to dissipate the shame that filled his chest every time he let his thoughts roll back to his drunken self-generated humiliation at Stark's gates. He forced his mind back to the nuts and bolts of this assignment: Find the operatives who would lead them to the Chitauri-based weapons, confiscate them, extract information, neutralize the enemy.

Nothing new about the surveillance. A piece of cake without the killing part. The one upside to the location: A steady ocean breeze to cool the abundant amount of sweat generated by wearing a blue leather jacket in a tropical climate. He silently groused to himself about the lack of planning. He glanced towards Wilson perched on the roof of a glow-in-the-dark yellow stucco row-house. "Birdman, are you sweating as much as I am? That flight-pack's gotta be hot. You've got those damn goggles on. Dork."

He kept his commentary to himself given the active comms that he had reluctantly agreed to use. He still had an annoying ring in his ear from three months earlier when Mother used the stun prod on his neck and shorted out his earpiece. The memory drew a shudder, but the tinnitus pissed him off since it always peaked in the head-down, butt-up, best sex position with Steve. He groaned at the recollected snarking Voice comment, "Don't do anything you can't tell your Mother, Soldier."

He digressed for a moment of gratitude that the Voice appeared to be more hung-over than he was and had gone completely quiet since they left New York.

His insistent "I don't need any more damn voices in my head," comm-link protest on the quinjet a few hours earlier, was deftly handled by Steve's perfected moves. The hand tangled in Bucky's hair-tugged his head back-a tongue running up his exposed throat-the stinging bite to the nape of his neck; Steve's maneuver never failed to melt his stubborn resolve. The ensuing circling arm that snaked around his waist slithered up his chest to constrict his body back into the firm, and unyielding warmth that was Steve sent his will out the window. The earpiece was slipped quickly into his ear while he was still nothing but a rubbery melted mess, his head lolling back on his shoulder. A small sigh at how easy it was for Steve to get what he wanted, he didn't resent it, too much. The feel of his hands on his body was ultimately worth it in the end.

The general musings about Steve touching him, sent his gaze to the far corner of the open area below, he sorted through the white-clad crowd of tourists for the tall, muscular figure that hovered on the fringe of their activities. He needed to lay eyes on him every few minutes to keep himself grounded. The undulating mass of people blocked his view. He bit his lip in anticipation and searched until he heard his own choked, "Steve?" whisper across the comm-link.

"Here, Northeast corner." The quick response was accompanied by the movement of a darkly dressed man with a beard and tousled blond hair stepping out from under an overhanging balcony. He nodded towards Bucky's position. "Right here."

The reassuring sight and sounds of Steve allowed him to return to his favorite pastime. An eyes closed recollection of hips pressed behind him. The sharp bite of teeth leaving a mark on his body that he couldn't see to appreciate but the distinctly lustful look on Steve's face as he fingered the spot for the few minutes his skin would hold the scar was all the confirmation he needed. He embraced the image of Steve's half-lidded eyes following his hand as he explored his skin, leaving fleeting evidence that he had claimed some hidden patch of Bucky's flesh. The quickly faded bruise on his inner thigh, the mouth-pulled welt in his groin, bite marks laid across his chest, all of it made his gut twitch and caused a hint of blood to pool between his legs. He found himself wondering what the Voice was going to have to say about his new found mission distraction: Sex with Steve.

The huffed laugh caused his foot to slip on the delicate red-clay tiles. Every twitch and step seemed to dislodge ancient chips of stone to scurry down the roof and over the edge, raining down pebbles and dust onto anyone below him. A death sentence for an assassin. Bucky's brain itched at the poor choice, reminding him of how much he detested his current assigned location. He looked longingly at the deep blue three-story building at the other end of the plaza. The one with the alluring, very flat, dark gray-black tar paper and asphalt covered roof. The temptation was overwhelming. The justification was minimal; the sun's moving, less glare. He made his move to skitter down the tiles, causing a torrent of broken clay pebbles to clatter in his wake and tumble to the ground below. His assassin skills didn't fail him, by the time people looked up he was gone.

"We're having lunch now, boys. It looks like we're starting with shrimp scampi, a nice red wine, and a few minutes to look over the entrees. Can I get you anything?" Natasha held her position in the shade of the side street market; she varied her perusing from the postcards to the bikinis to the Panama hats. Then over again.

Sam's groaned stretch filled their ears before he added, "Are we sure about these two being our targets? Just wondering out loud, this was a bit rushed, you know, Barnes pissing Stark off just when he seemed to let the whole thing rest. Not that he should let it rest, I mean it's a big deal, but then again Barnes was brainwashed after all. How could Stark still want to kill him? Then again. I live with him and maybe I can see Stark's point. No disrespect to either of them. We didn't have much time to confirm this intel, so maybe..."

"What the hell are we doing here?" Bucky's irritation laced question burst across their hearing, taking all of them by surprise. An uncharacteristic contribution to their usual three-way-only comm discussions.

Sam sighed a rebuttal, "We are surveilling our targets. That's what we're doing." A subtle adjustment to his position barely relieved the calf cramps as he squatted on the roof.

Bucky snarled "No kidding? Is that it? I had no idea." His last word ended with a slight rasped squeak. "I thought we were here to intercept a weapons shipment, or an alien invasion or stop an alien weapons interception; something other than babysitting two tourists wandering lost all over Bogota for the past seven hours."

"Cartagena." Steve closed his eyes and allowed an internal groan of regret as soon as the correction fell out of his mouth.

"What? Cartagena?" Bucky croaked again. "Oh, sorry. My bad. Wrong sun-drenched South American location. Bogota, Cartagena, Sao Paolo, Buenos Aires. Is there a difference? No. Not really. I've been to all of them, I think? Anyway, they're all hot, crowded, bright, too bright. Stupid yellows, reds, blues. Tourists, narrow streets, crap sight-lines. Confusion and sweat, handlers didn't know what they were doing..."

Sam's comments mingled with Bucky's monologue, "Okay, he's losing it, great, we've got a sniper on the roof, and he's going down the tubes. He even used a number not divisible by three."

Steve left the corner of the plaza and paced to scan the tile covered roof. "Nat, do you have eyes on him? I can't see him. He was up there a few minutes ago. I saw him." A hint of panic began to rise. "Sam, can you see him? Buck? Location, what's your location?"

Sam answered, "Nope. No sight of him. He's a damn ninja. One second he's on that roof next second...gone."

Natasha's disconcerting laughter cut across Steve's worried questions. She muttered with a clearly sultry tone, "Southeast corner, blue building, roof. I'll be there in five, my love." It was followed by another laugh.

"I take it our target's standing in front of you. Are you safe?" Steve spun around to try and lay eyes on Natasha. "Sam, you got her?"

"I got her. She's okay for the moment. I'll get to her. You check on Barnes."

Natasha held her phone to her ear and tossed her head as she laughed. Her face-to-face encounter with their target at the Panama hat pushcart was entirely unexcepted. A tickle of suspicion crossed her mind as she replayed the last few minutes and wondered if Beebee had spotted the bug she had planted on Maymay's skirt. Or maybe it was the full-on black head-to-toe outfit in the middle of a sea of white that brought her the unwanted attention. She smiled coyly at her and ducked to dig through the stock below the cart. "Be careful, Steve, he's heavily armed." She could feel if not see Steve's rebuking glance. "Nevermind, you know that, besides, I doubt he'll shoot you. Sam on the other hand."

"No worries I'm not going over there. I just might shoot him back." Sam added as he ditched the flight pack and ran to join her.

Steve turned his attention towards the blue painted hotel. "Enough. No one is shooting anyone, just keep an eye on the targets, I'm heading for him." The trip across the open square through the throng of people came to a halt when his gaze fell on Bucky as he prowled the rooftop. Growing frightened glances from the surrounding people directed towards the menacing figure on the low roof pulled at Steve's attention. He kept his focus on Bucky; the rolling, pacing stride that stood out against the brilliant azure skyline. Bucky, long hair tousled by the ocean breeze, a sniper rifle held across his body, pointed to the ground; the dark leather jacket; Caribbean sun glinting splintered reflections from the dark and gold-hued metal arm. There he was, alive; memories intact, damaged, frightening, scared, surviving, beautiful; and he was with him, in his bed, inseparable.

A stolen fleeting moment to let it all sink in. He thought about the last three months of exploring every curve and line of his body, finding their way as lovers; learning how to navigate Bucky's post-Hydra world of Voices and medications and uncertainties. A smile crept across his face when he thought about how far they'd come together.

"Steve? Are you there?" The uncertain question broke across his consciousness. He blinked to fight the glare from the blinding sun that sat just over Bucky's shoulder. What came into focus cut his smile short.

Bucky stood wide-stanced on the edge of the roof; the toe of his boot just over the lip; Steve thought he could see the steel gray of his eyes, as he started right through him. The rifle hung loose in his hands.

"Buck. You trust me right? Nod, just nod that you can hear me."

Bucky's head moved slightly, a hint of a nod.

"Good, I saw that. Don't move. Don't do anything. I am on my way."

Steve slipped a cautious hand under the hem of Bucky's jacket, "Let's go, Buck, get down from there." The tug to pull him back ended with his arms wrapped around him, they stumbled towards the scant amount of shade offered by an air conditioning vent. His quiet order to "Sit down" was obeyed as Bucky slid down to let his back rest against the vent. He sucked down the first bottle of water. Steve squatted in front of him and offered a bit of truth, "You look like hell."

"Gee thanks."

"Sure. I figure you should at least get some honest feedback after that stunt you pulled." Steve settled in next to him.

"Is this the lecture portion of the program?" Bucky poured the last gulp of water on his head.

"Nope. It's the genuinely curious and concerned portion."

"I'm all good here. This ain't my first time. I've been in a lot worse shape, worse conditions. You think a little sun and lack of water stopped me before?" Bucky wiped his hand across his forehead, pulling the sweat away from his eyes.

"Not what I'm talking about." Steve shook his head and let his arms rest on his knees. The pause to let Bucky speak went by silently. He tried again, "What were you thinking?" The question was quiet.

"That it's stinking hot here? That I sucked down a couple of gallons of water on the quinjet and I've gotta piss, but I'm up here on this damn roof watching Wilson doing a crap job of looking discreet while wearing goggles and a flight-pack. Dork. He's killing the tourist trade at the pushcarts on the Plaza, impersonating a vulture on that roof."

"Buck, you were prowling like a wild animal up here; quite the show down below. Not so great for the covert operation we're on but cheap entertainment for the cruise ship crowd. So I'm asking again what were you thinking? Going to Stark's place? Drunk?"

"Not bad, Rogers. It only took you twelve hours and eighteen minutes to ask those questions."

"I thought I'd give you time to clear the alcohol." Steve handed him another water.

"Thanks, considerate of you." He pushed the bottle away.

"That's me. Considerate Steve."

"Perfect Steve." Bucky muttered and let his head fall back against the vent.

"Cut the crap. What were you thinking?. You were the one that insisted I wear a comm when I met with him about the data. You were ready to kill him if he touched me. Two nights later you're giving yourself up? How do you suppose I feel about that? Finding you there? Stark could have had Interpol, the CIA and the FBI on you in under thirty minutes."

"He could have tried," Bucky growled, rolled to his feet and paced away.

Steve followed to block his escape, "Talking big for someone who got caught by a ninety-year-old woman.'"

Bucky stepped closer, nearly touching the dark blue uniform that stretched across Steve's chest. "Asshole. She's a Widow, not a woman and not your average ninety-year-old. More like us than say one of those cruise ship grannies."

Steve didn't back away, "You didn't think to use the main entrance to the Avengers Facility. The unlocked main entrance."

"Fuck you, Rogers." Bucky's step to back away was stopped when Steve grabbed both biceps and tugged him back, he drew in a slow breath, waiting without struggling.

Steve moved to let his lips brush against Bucky's ear, he whispered, "Looking forward to that."

"What?" His weak attempt to pull out of Steve's grip ended with him staring intently at him. "Still?"

"Of course. Why would you think anything else?" He laughed.

"I screwed up. Stark's calling you every night, I embarrassed you. I'm crazy. I'm a mess."

Steve cupped Bucky's face between his hands, his move to bring their lips together hesitated with Bucky's whispered, "You know, I hear voices." He smiled and covered his words with his mouth. He meant for the kiss to be quick, a token while out in the open sunlight in the middle of a mission but Bucky's faint moan pulled him in. He pushed his tongue deep into Bucky's mouth, his arm wrapped around his neck, holding him in place as he pressed their mouths together. The muffled sounds were clear across the comms.

Sam's voice cut into their moment. "We can hear you. Really. We can. Enough."

Author Notes: Rubinesque: Applied to a woman who has similar proportions to those in paintings by the Flemish painter Peter Paul Ruben; attractively plump; a woman who is alluring or pretty but without the waif-like body or athletic build presently common in media.


	3. Chapter 3 Kiev in My Mind

Bucky didn't want to extract his tongue from Steve's mouth, but the words had to be said, "I hate Wilson."

"We need to go. People saw you." Steve's effort to sound decisive was apparent but the tense bicep locked around his neck and the fist-full of butt cheek that hoisted his foot off the roof showed that Steve was sincerely conflicted.

"So let's go." Bucky dug fingers under a belt, and over the waistband until the warm metal settled a wide claiming mark across a muscled abdomen.

"Okay, we're going." Steve's confident tone waned as the heat from the metal spread across his belly. The offered cherished, but annoying smirk against his mouth didn't help him concentrate.

Bucky conceded, "You first. You've got me in a headlock, and I've lost circulation in my ass."

"Your hand is melting the skin in my groin." He moved to let their eyes meet; the intense want that stared back at him, kept the stalemate going.

Sam interrupted, "I am going to puke. Really I am. And I hate you too Barnes. You are incorrigible, out of control pain in the ass. I hate to interrupt the foreplay but Natasha's slow dancing with target number one, my wings are on the roof, and target number two is on her third coconut daiquiri, could we all focus here? Did I mention the Cartegena police are on their way? No doubt searching for the crazed over-sexed sniper everyone was gawking at a few minutes ago."

Steve's arm relaxed, he slow dragged his hand through Bucky's hair, letting the thick softness slip across his fingertips. "Copy that. On our way."

Bucky groaned a protest, "Wait, just a couple of seconds more," The warmth of Steve's skin as he pushed his hand deeper sent a faint electric pulse coursing up his arm, fingertips digging into flesh pulled a quick breath from Steve. He lunged to catch that breath.

Steve staggered back, grabbed his wrist and tugged at his hand, "Hold it, you are making this hard."

Bucky muttered, eyes closed, his mouth chasing Steve's, "That would be the whole point."

He straight-armed him by the front of his jacket, "That's it. Hand out of my pants. Sam is right you are incorrigible. We need to go."

Bucky muttered, "Wilson is never right." As Steve dragged him and the sniper rifle towards the fire escape to the fast-approaching sound of sirens.

"You look hot." The satin-voiced appraisal came from target number one, Beebee as she stepped boldly into Natasha's personal space. Her liquid green eyes began a full-body caress that ran imagined fingers through curled red hair, slid along the slope of her neck, teased the skin of her breasts, to snag a fingernail on a partly undone zipper. A small upturn to the corner of her mouth as she continued her visual reconnaissance, lingering on hips, resting a brief moment on her crotch before returning with an approving smile to stare unapologetically into Natasha's eyes.

"Thank you?" Natasha's voice crackled.

The woman tucked her sunglasses to hang heavy between her breasts, "Oh, yes, well. I meant it's hot out for all black. But the other hot works nicely as well."

"Sorry. I may have misunderstood you." Natasha replied with a coy tilt of her head and fleeting smirk.

"I think you understood me perfectly." Beebee circled Natasha; her hand teased the back of her neck. "Where are you staying?"

"Jetted in, no hotel, just here for a quick anonymous rendezvous." She let her head fall back to brush against Beebee's shoulder. "And you?"

"Cruise ship. We leave port in the morning but until then..." A shrugged invitation.

Natasha smiled as she tugged the sunglasses from between Beebee's breasts and slipped them on her head. "Sounds perfect."

I saw you fingering the bikinis, there's a lovely shop over there, dark, cool, they serve these tantalizing fruity drinks, we can try bikinis on one another." Beebee wrapped a pinkie finger around Natasha's and pulled her down the walkway.

Her final word to the team before ditching the comm, "Maaji's right? I wandered past it earlier. I just need to warn you I've got a scar or two undercover."

"Wait for me, just wait." Sam's begging slipped across Steve and Bucky's hearing but was lost in the deep threads of Natasha's jumpsuit pocket where she'd slipped the comm right before Beebee's tongue licked a wet circle around her earlobe. "Nat, what the hell are you doing?" The last he saw of her was Beebee's hand around her waist as they strolled into a cave-like shop at the end of the plaza.

Steve told him what he already knew, "She's going undercover, Sam. Stick with her. We'll catch up after dark."

"You never answered me." Steve peered between metal panels to scan the narrow streets below the balcony. A quick trip off the roof, through the crowded streets and down an alley brought them to an abandoned second story apartment walled in by scaffolding and sheet metal. The approaching wail of police sirens drove them to take refuge.

"What was the question? You know I have memory issues." Bucky deflected as he knelt beside him using the scant amount of light that slipped behind the barriers to break down his rifle and tuck it in a backpack.

Steve gave him a pointed glance before checking the street again, "Let's start with why you went to Stark's last night?"

"I couldn't sleep. You said he doesn't sleep much either I thought we could hang together."

"Asking again, Buck. Why go to Stark's place?"

Bucky dragged in a breath and sank to the floor, knees up, his back to the wall, "I owe him. You know damn well why."

"Now? Like that?" Steve adjusted his stance to let his calf press against Bucky's thigh, a side effect of losing him more than once. The need to connect, a hand in his hair, hip to hip, thigh to calf, some physical touch meant to remind himself that Bucky existed. Straining eyes kept watch on the darkening street.

"Overdue. It's overdue." He wrapped his arm around Steve's leg, dug his fingers in behind his knee.

"We were fine until he called. Now your guilt feelings are enough to throw yourself at his feet?"

"Yea, I guess so. Maybe you were fine; I'm never fine."

"Come on; you know what I mean."

Bucky sighed, "He's calling you. Every night. He knows we're together, knows where we live."

Steve raked his nails across Bucky's scalp, "And if he wanted to arrest us, he would have done that by now."

"Or he's just waiting til we least expect it." Bucky moved to let Steve explore more of his head. "It's like he knows right when we're having sex. Like he's spying on us."

The wash of paranoia that swept across Bucky's mind sent a tremor pulsing into Steve's calf, the head shake under his fingers, and the faint odor of sweat sent a clear message. He tried to reassure him, "He's not spying on us. He works at night, and in the day, pretty much all the time."

Bucky frowned, "You say that, but you don't know for sure. Remember the tunnels in Boston? He was there; he cut into Fury's comm-link, we both saw him, saw the arc reactor light. Don't lie; you kept me from going to him then."

Steve looked down, he pulled his head back so they could see one another, "I saw him, yes, and I don't want you giving yourself up to him or anyone. He could kill you, or lock you up for the rest of your very long life. Just think, no conjugal visits."

Bucky tugged his head away, "Okay, I'll give you that, it was a stupid plan."

Steve turned to watch the street, "I know you want redemption, haven't I said I'm willing to help? Isn't that what we're doing right now? It's as if you stopped trusting me."

"I trust you. No one else, no one. Just you."

Steve leaned his shoulder against the wall, he took in the shadowed figure at his feet, "You promised no self-harm, no leaving without talking first."

Bucky shrugged, "Right. Those are guidelines, not rules. Not promises."

"Bullshit." He tugged Bucky's head back again to see his face, "We'll come back to that. Let's talk about being reckless."

"Okay, mom." He pulled his arm from around Steve's leg and ducked away again.

"Not your mom." Steve knelt next to him, "I am your friend. Lover. Partner. That gives me a say in whether you live or die by your own hand. You're the one who takes exception to my reckless plans, feeling's mutual."

"I said I was wrong. It was a stupid plan."

"We've established that. Now, why did you abandon the first surveillance point."

Bucky groaned, "Bad footing. Damn pigeons. I like the smell of tar paper roofs? I don't know."

"Great reasons to switch but why without talking to me first?"

"I hate comms, never used them, no one ever expected me to talk." The darkness filled in around them as the sun fell behind the buildings; Bucky's voice went low, "They didn't want me to talk, if I talked it was to answer a question, give a simple direction; go over there, I have her, you take him. Otherwise only listen, only obey."

Steve brought his knees under Bucky's thigh; his hand slipped behind his neck. "We're not Hydra."

He drew in a long breath, "I hear voices, Steve, you know that. I can't think with all that chatter in my ears. Romanova and the coconut candy, Wilson's wearing white, Team Nomad T-shirts. What the fuck."

"Now I know you heard us. Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

"I dunno, it was an impulse, there was an army of pigeons staring at me. I got paranoid."

Steve's quiet laugh was short, "I meant why did you leave last night, you went to Stark's. We've been through this before, the last time, Sokolov found you, tortured you. You promised not to leave without talking to me first, and I find you at Stark's door, shit-faced drunk, begging to die."

A streetlight flickered on to cast faint lines of yellow through the gaps between the metal covering. Steve watched Bucky shrug, then bite his lip. He waited.

"I lied." Bucky shrugged again. "That's it. I lied. I just wanted to get you off my back."

Steve pulled in a quiet deep breath, a flush of heat crossed his skin, a quick thought of being glad that the dim light hid the flash of pain and anger. He withdrew his hand from his neck. "Lied? I don't believe you. I don't."

"Well, it's the truth, not lying now. I was lying then."

Bucky's fake bravado didn't convince Steve, but the current lie cut him. "Look at me. No really look at me." He cupped a hand to Bucky's head and pulled him to make eye contact. "Do you know how it felt to wake up and find you gone? After everything we've been through."

Bucky pulled his head away.

"No look at me." Steve tugged again to turn his head, "Do you have any idea how it hurt to know you did that on your own. No net over your head, no choppers swooping in, no fighting for you. Just you walking away."

He let go with Bucky's whispered, "Don't force me."

Sam's quiet interruption, "Nomad, comms are live." Cued Steve to cut the mics on both of their comms.

Steve dropped his hands on his thighs, his skin flushed red, "Here's what I think. It's easier to wallow in the guilt, to want punishment than it is to forgive yourself."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You want to get caught. Going to Stark's drunk; running instead of trusting me; prowling the rooftop in broad daylight instead of working as a team. That's it isn't it? You'd rather be caught and punished or killed than grow up and accept that none of it was your fault."

"Asshole." Bucky's shove to Steve's chest knocked him on his haunches. Their scramble to get up ended with Steve pushing him to the wall. He grabbed his wrists but didn't struggle.

Steve pressed his forehead to Bucky's, the pinpoint beam of the street light was enough to let their eyes meet, "Truth then. Say it. You want to be caught and throw in The Raft. Or killed or both. Right?"

Bucky pushed against Steve's wrists; his gaze fell away, "Let go of me."

"That's it? You're not answering." Steve fisted his hand in the front of his jacket; Bucky staggered forward from the pull. Steve hissed close to his ear, "Do me a favor then. Don't do it on my watch. I don't want to have see that. Go sneak off to get caught or killed because I can't watch you die again. I can't stand by feeling helpless while you kill yourself. Can you do that one thing for me?"

Bucky let a heartbeat pass; the tremor he felt wasn't his own, this time it came through Steve's hands on his chest.

Steve pushed him away. "So, you are currently on my watch. In case there's any doubt. Let's catch up with Nat and Sam and finish this so you can turn yourself in or get shot or killed, or whatever it is that's gonna make you feel better." He headed across the room to leave.

Bucky didn't follow. "Steve. Wait."

"What?"

He let a long pause go by, "I'm sorry. It's not what you think."

Steve didn't turn around, "What then?"

Bucky's words were hesitant, "Hydra made me into a monster, a cold, heartless freak of nature. I did things that I will take to my grave; I couldn't have you know."

He spoke more to himself than out loud, pulling Steve across the room.

"You'd run from me if you knew it all. That's the death I'm afraid of, you walking away."

Steve was close now, standing still listening.

Bucky's foot rearranged trash on the floor buying himself time. "You know what scares me? You do. How I feel about you. How it feels when I lose track of you." He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. "It scares me to be alone. So why am I pushing you away? Why break my promise to talk to you?" He shuffled his feet side to side, his swaying form moving in the faint shafts of light. "If I went to you first, you'd try and save me; you'd do some damn heroic Steve Rogers thing like you always do to save someone who doesn't deserve saving. The way you look at me sometimes, that sad look, like I'm gone already, lost to you. I hate that look."

Steve reached out to touch him; "No, never, you're wrong about that. I never want to lose you."

Bucky shrugged away.

"I didn't tell you why I tried to kill myself. And you, the perfect Captain America never asked."

Bucky heard Steve's soft "Not perfect." He felt the shadowy outline move in front of him, close enough to feel his breath warm on his cheek. His intense whisper was underscored by the hand that tapped at his temple, "The voices were bad then, loud, insistent, unrelenting. They wanted blood," He tapped his finger on Steve's chest, "Your blood. I fought it a long time. I tried." The words and images made his feet move, he started to pace, but Steve caught his arms and held him still. "I didn't try to kill myself because I was weak." He leaned close to Steve's ear, "Or pathetic, although I am pretty pathetic, it wasn't because I needed some kind of childish attention." A slow careful hand laid on Steve's chest, "I did it for you. I couldn't fight the voice that told me to kill you. I did it - to protect you. So I tricked it, I agreed and shoved you out the door. I wanted to die to keep you safe. I'm not telling you that to score points; I just thought you should know, I'm not that big of a loser." He pulled in a deep breath, a tremor raced through his body, he placed his hand on Steve's cheek, "I'd die for you. For what it's worth."

Bucky flinched when Steve's hands moved quickly towards his face. The force of Steve's mouth covering his own knocked him backward, dragging Steve with him, they landed hard against the wall, the whack to his head sent bright stars cascading in his vision. A rush of panic tore through his mind, sent fire to his skin and let the last drop of his sweat break across his chest. He struggled to right his thoughts, not sure if this was anger or sex; the rush of confusion brought back long suppressed dreams of his not-willing consent to hard sex and angry hands in long forgotten places. But the accosting faces who's names resided deep within his memory were tucked away for the great day of atonement if it ever came. His panting response to the deep engulfing thrusts of Steve's tongue into his mouth, pulled an aching moan and an irrational thought to drive a knee into his groin to end the assault; except he could taste Steve in his mouth, that distinct, engulfing flavor of something fresh and clean and maybe tart, a lot tart; all Steve. He refrained from kneeing him and let the sensation of his tongue being shoved down his throat to near choking levels just happen. He opened his mouth, letting him in, inviting in this hungry consuming taking of himself. He wanted this, ached for it.

The thought crossed his mind to pull at Steve's clothes, the fumbled attempt was quickly thwarted when Steve tore down the zipper on his jacket, yanked it over his shoulders, so his head crashed into the wall again, bringing yet another cascade of red stars this time. They were strangely reminiscent of the star that resided on his shoulder for so many years; he wondered briefly if it was a coincidence but the sensation of his arms pinned to his sides when the jacket only made it to his elbows, pulled him back into the current moment of impending hot sex. He tried to breathe slowly enough to keep from passing out.

Steve's warm breath sent heat across his throat, the sharp stinging bite of teeth on his flesh, the heavy press of a body lying on his chest, his arms restrained, tore at the old memories, he struggled to remember the safe words they'd discussed, his brain refusing to help. He tucked his face into the neck that presented itself in the darkness, a deep breath pulled in the scent, familiar, calming, the smell of flesh that filled his every night for the past three months, the smell that wafted across a century for him alone. He knew even in the darkness of his nightmares that this was Steve. He fought to keep his mind from the overwhelming panic that teased around the edges.

Rough fingers tugged hard at his waistband; his hips were pulled from the wall, his body moved as if he had no weight at all. The hands tore his pants open, a knee forced against his leg, hips pressed firm to his hips, he pushed forward without thinking, his body craving the contact, his mind uncertain if it was real or just another recollection or worse. He tried to stifle the groan when Steve's hand covered his cock, stroking his thumb slowly down the shaft, slipping fingers deeper to fill his palm with Bucky's skin. The shadowed figure holding him, caressing him, felt and smelled and tasted like Steve, but the nagging, unrelenting tickle at the back of his brain said maybe not.

Bucky blinked hard to bring his focus under control, the darkness gave him shadows, some unmoving objects that were mundane at his first glance in the waning sunlight, they took on macabre waffling forms now in the scant dancing lights of the streets. He searched with growing desperation for a glance at the man stroking his cock at the moment, the one whose hand was wrapped tightly around his throat; his heartbeat throbbed into his head, and his groin as his body gave the man what he wanted. A flash of bright lights and laughter, naked bodies moving around him, touching him; the hot flash of panic came over him again. The old familiar roll of nausea clenched in his gut, he gasped and choked and tried to say something, anything, to call Steve's name, to find the safe word. It was gone, all of it. Words, rational thought, plans. All that was left was fear, and pain and the mixed confusion of wanting to come but only if this was Steve. He let a silent scream cross his mind, and then.

" _Kiev. It's Kiev. The safe word is Kiev."_

Bucky blurted it out as soon as the Voice reminded him. "Kiev." He choked it out again, louder. "Kiev. Steve? please be Steve."

"Buck? Are you okay? Yes, god, yes it's me, it's okay."

Bucky rolled his face into Steve's hand when he stroked his cheek; he pressed his mouth against him when they found their way in the dark. He muttered, "Don't stop, fuck, I'm coming," As Steve laughed softly and pulled him through what was real.


	4. Chapter 4 Goodbye Cartagena

Life as Steve Rogers involved sweating. He accepted, ignored, and often reveled in, the whole body experience of radical physical exertion that pulled the hot wetness from every pore of his being. Cleansing, freeing, satisfying; the consuming sweat-evoking experience now had nothing to do with work or the heat of a South American city. It was all about Bucky. The full-press wash of sweat that covered his body under the uniform came as the unintended response to the post-come whisper filling his ear in the dark abandoned apartment.

"Let me take care of you, Stevie."

The faint pleading tone a whispered heat of uncertainty; a counterpoint to sure and searching hands that tugged aside his clothes, pulled at his flesh, claiming him; it never failed to tear down his sense of decorum, shred his will, and muddle his considerable focus. Bucky ruled all of Steve.

"I got you, let me do this."

Slacking muscles found support against the wall as Bucky flipped their stance. Mission tight abs weakened under the cold-warm dichotomy of Bucky's hands as they dug deep into his flesh. Steve let his head fall back, opening himself to the hungry mouth that slipped down his body, pulled blood to his skin and hinted of more with a grazing touch of his tongue at the head of his cock. The tease pulled his hips forward, asking; his fumbling hands buried deep into long thick hair nestled close against his thigh. The willing loll of Bucky's head as he pulled him between his legs nearly ended Steve's waning resolve not to let this keep going. A shred of responsibility made its last gasp plea. "Stop. We can't do this." Rasped words that didn't match his body's willingness, they fell ignored in the darkness.

"No, you're close, please let me." A begging response muffled by his skin and Bucky's reach to take him in.

"Get up, come on. We're done." Fingers twisted a tighter grip in hair, his tugged intention to pull him to his feet. A sliver of light streamed across their bodies enough for Steve to see Bucky, lips parted, wide-eyed want, face turned up expectant; wild and innocent, tamed and world-weary, all of what Steve ever wanted kneeling in front of him, a frightening mix of paranoia and trust, waiting for his word, no matter the consequences.

The jarring echo of "Kiev" made his choice clear. "Okay, we're done. Stop."

"You say stop but look at you. You don't want to stop." Bucky's half laughed, partly whined complaint didn't stop Steve from dragging him to his feet.

"Nope. Up. Done. I shouldn't have done this. What the hell am I thinking?" He tugged pants up, jacket shut, fending off continued attempts of skin-on-skin contact, he ended the struggle with Bucky's arms pinned behind his back pressed to the wall. Full weight laid across his chest, a ploy to hold him in place, a stolen few seconds longer before putting distance between themselves.

Bucky's muttered, "What did I do wrong?" Kept him from letting go.

"What? Nothing. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I did. You stopped. Something's wrong."

Steve pulled back; he studied Bucky's face in the shadowed light, "The safe word, not-safe word, whatever it is, Kiev, you had to say it. I hurt you."

"So, that's what it's for; you do what you want, I say Kiev if I feel bad. That's what I did. Done." Even the dim light didn't keep Steve from seeing his confusion.

"No. That's not how it works. I don't get to do what I want. You, I, we need to figure this out another time." Steve dragged his thumb along the day-old stubble on Bucky's cheek, avoiding his chasing mouth. "God, what am I going to do with you?"

"Fuck me, Stevie. That's what you're gonna do." Hips pushed forward into his own, a taunt he didn't want to ignore but would.

"Not now. Not on a mission. Later, I promise, maybe. We need to go." Steve stepped back, his hands slipped slowly from Bucky's body, "I'm letting go. We're both going to pull ourselves together and get back with Sam and Natasha before they call Stark for back-up. We will not lay a hand on one another for the rest of this god-forsaken mission. Agreed?"

A twisting move to avoid an outstretched hand, he pointed at Bucky, "Agreed. Say it."

Bucky's muttered "Agreed," Accompanied the backpack dragged along the floor as he followed Steve down the stairs, past the propped up sheet metal door and out into the yellow-glow light of the evening streets of Cartegena. The three-way chatter resumed on the comms, a distracting discussion of unruly targets, lost lunches, a drunken arms dealer and the best take-out for supper if they ever got home. It all fell to the back of his awareness as the Voice came roaring up within his brain.

" _You screwed up again. Loser. That stunt on the roof, changing locations. Independent thinking isn't allowed, Soldat. You know this. Sex on a mission? You don't get to decide when that happens. You sorely lack discipline. Mother will be extremely disappointed."_

"I love your nail polish, what color is that?" Natasha held Beebee's pinkie finger up to the row of incandescent bulbs that cast not-flattering shadows in the bikini shop's three-by-three dressing room. "Mine always chips, guess it's my line of work." She shrugged.

"Black Widow by Sassy Pants," The proudly cooed response as they stood together admiring the dark, sparkled nails.

"Oh." Natasha offered a raised eyebrow, "Well, that's a coincidence."

Beebee whispered, "Not really."

Natasha flirted with the urge to stun her and be one step closer to getting out of Cartegena, but the answer piqued her interest. "Why would you say that?"

"I know who you are. Really." A wide smile covered her face, "You're my hero - heroine. I can't believe you're here! Right in front of me. I hoped we'd meet, hoped our work would make us cross paths but this, this is real! OMG!" The hushed confession electric with her enthusiasm, she tightened her grip between their fingers and added an anxious bounce on her toes.

"Interesting. Okay, I'll bite, go on."

"The Battle of New York my first time seeing you, magnificent. Capital M. A woman for the ages. Capital W." A fanning motion underscored her excitement. "Warrior, holding your own, spy, fighter, femme fatale, you do it all." Beebee's voice rose with every word, a crescendo of joy and abject adoration, "I so wanted to be just like you, I even dyed my hair red." A shake of her short cropped cut. "That didn't work out; it turned orange." A waved gesture towards her head, "Hence the drab brown right now, but once my discretionary money is better, I'll get it done professionally this time, never again with the color at home method." A wag of their joined hands, she sang, "I took self-defense classes, pictured myself as you, dressed in all black, I sewed a little red spider on my shoulder, cute. Tossing the instructor around, damn what a rush. Except I wrenched my back, had to stop. Did you know that physical therapy is really much more than stretching, who knew? I'll get back there." Another dancing bounce, "Oh, oh, I took classes with nunchucks, so much like your batons," A short break to full palm fondle the baton hanging at Natasha's hip, she added a guttural growl before clarifying, "I was getting pretty good until my carpal tunnel acted up. More PT, a brace, ice, it helps. No nunchucks for me, my typing speed dropped from a hundred words a minute to forty." A leaned in secret shared, "The boss was not happy..."

The adoring rant marched on as Natasha nodded, smiled, shrugged and tucked the retrieved comm-link in her ear. "Sam, are you there? I think we're good..." Her call for backup cut short by the disturbing retching noises coming from the over-stimulated Beebee.

"Um, is everything okay?"

"Yes, no, I am just so very squeeeee about this moment."

Natasha's only warning that Beebee's lunch was heading for her chest was the faint green hew that scurried across her face; it only lasted three seconds, not long enough to avoid the regurgitated shrimp scampi.

"You're a liability Barnes, a damn liability. You're putting us all at risk." Sam brought his toes to within an eighth of an inch of Bucky's boots, square-shouldered full-frontal pissed. The festive nightlife swarmed around them on the cobblestone street too preoccupied or drunk to notice the escalation of their sparring. Steve and Natasha stood looming over a zip-tie restrained Beebee sitting on the curb, not necessarily the clear loser in the bikini shop encounter.

Bucky offered his standard response to Sam's cutting assessment, "Fuck you, Wilson."

"Nice. Same answer every time. You're so eloquent."

" _Mother would treat this eloquence with her stun prod."_

"Thanks. I try." Bucky's answer doubled as a retort to Wilson and the Voice. A quick tremor and side-long glance the only tell that Bucky spoke to both of them.

Sam demanded, "What the hell was that stunt on the roof about?"

"You stuck out just as much as I did, Birdman, you looked more like a vulture than a Falcon."

" _That was witty, once, not when repeated."_

"Funny guy, I wasn't waving a rifle at a bunch of tourists." Sam didn't back down.

"I wasn't waving a rifle; I don't wave my rifle. You're crazy."

"I'm crazy." Sam laughed, "Actually that would be you I believe, you're the one on meds, the one with the voices, not me."

The shame driven anger grabbed his attention, he fought down the urge to snap an answer or Wilson's neck.

" _Birdman knows the truth. He sees you. He sees how fucked up you are. Loser."_

"I'm not. No, he doesn't. You're wrong."

"What? You're not crazy? Not taking meds? Who's he? Me? Rogers? See this is what I mean. You're not even coherent half the time."

Sam's waved gesture towards him drew an uncharacteristic flinch, the rush of anxiety drove his steps back and demanded its due. He began to pace. A muttered, gritted "I hate you," as he brushed past Wilson's shoulder.

Steve sent a worried glance towards him as the pacing began.

"Right back at 'cha Barnes." Sam stood his ground, arms folded, he watched Bucky's measured pace move down the street and back again, he pointed at Bucky's feet as he passed, "Oops you missed a step. That was eight, not nine. Do over."

A near stumble at the critique, Bucky pushed forward, counting nine up and nine back, the constant internal regulation of his anxiety. A muttered, "Fuck you," tripped up his steps, "Shit," brought him back to his starting point.

Sam kept going, "While you were blowing the lid off our covert operation and sipping Pina Coladas with Steve, Natasha had a slow dance gone wrong with Beebee; Maymay's drunk selling alien weapons in the plaza and those annoying sirens? That would be La Policia searching for the crazed sniper spotted on the roof. You know, the one that works with us. The international and probably intergalactic fugitive." He waved his hand towards Bucky's back as the measured steps carried him past, "Oh, wait, that's you. We do not even want to know what the two of you did once the comms went off."

Natasha suggested, "Speak for yourself."

"Okay, Sam, let's not go there, please," Steve called as he and Nat continued their interrogation.

" _He's lying. They know what you did. He heard you. They were listening to you get your rocks off. Pathetic moans of let me do this, Stevie, let me take care of you, Stevie."_

Bucky shook his head, the hand that ran through his hair caught a fist-full and tugged, a desperate attempt to distract the Voice, he hoped Wilson didn't notice, an absent mutter, "Who the hell are Beebee and Maymay?"

"Our targets, Barnes, the two targets we've followed all over Cartegena for the past who knows how long."

"You know their names? No names, better that way. Better to not know."

"I'll tell you what's better. It would be better if you followed Steve's lead. If you participated as a team member, so our covert operation didn't have to descend into 'Let's all look for Barnes' like you're some damn lost puppy."

" _You're a fucking distraction."_

Bucky's pacing quickened, head down, hair in his face, thoughts racing one after another. Hearing Wilson's words like a low rumbled murmur overpowered by the growing conviction of the Voice, agreeing with Wilson's assessment. He thought his muttered response was internal, "You're right, both of you are right, I'm a loser. Stupid, careless, undisciplined, loser."

"Barnes, what the hell are you doing?" Sam stepped in his path, "Are you talking to me? That voice? Barnes!"

Steve jerked around at the sound of Sam's raised voice. A split second image burned into his mind's eye, Bucky's metal hand fisted into Sam's uniform, lifting him chest to chest, toes barely touching the ground. The tremor coursing through Bucky evident even in the dim light of the street. A cold hard rush of anxiety tightened his chest as he recognized the angry, disconnected stare, a nearly forgotten look since he'd stabilized on the medications, Steve crossed with caution to slide his hand over Bucky's wrist. "Buck, it's me, come on, let's take a step back." Flesh fingers entwined with metal, he dug between the digits and material, to drag away his grip. His chin brushed on Bucky's shoulder, his tone and words a fluid balance of cajoling whispered coaxing meant to keep Sam safe, protect Bucky while safe-guarding their intimacy as he talked him down inches from Sam's face. "It's over, let him go, you don't want to do this. For me, let go for me."

Bucky staggered back, his hand wrapped in Steve's grip, he let himself be led to a darkened spot on the sidewalk, panting through the blinding flash of anger and pain, he struggled to recall the last few seconds.

"Are you with me?" Steve's hand rested on his chest, quieting his pounding heartbeat. Bucky didn't answer.

"That Voice is back isn't it?"

He rolled his head against the wall, "Back? It's never gone. It's always there. Loud, quiet, helpful, cutting, never gone."

Steve moved closer, "We need to get through this, all in one piece, not fighting with one another. You've fought the Voice before, time to do it again."

"Not just me, not just the Voice," He pointed at Wilson, "He's a jerk. Worse than a jerk."

"I heard that Barnes. Takes one to know one." Sam called over the crowd that meandered between them.

Natasha pulled at Sam's arm and pointed an accusatory finger at both of them, "I admit I have no knowledge of public schools but I still know a schoolyard fight when I see one and this has got to stop. We're a long way from done. That cruise ship sets sail at dawn, and we still haven't found the weapons. You can duke this out in the gym when we get home. I am hot, tired, sweaty, there is puke down my bra, and I am at the end of my considerable patience. Zip it and move on."

"I vote no." Sam underscored his emphatic stance with a decisive crossing of his arms.

Steve sighed, "I hate to say this but, I'm with Sam."

Bucky waved a dismissive hand at the two of them but kept his "Fuck you," internal.

"Oh, something new. Self-control. Afraid of the Widow aren't you?"

Natasha weighed in, "I think it's a good plan. I vote yes." She took note of Bucky's shocked look in her direction. She shrugged. "Split decision."

Steve offered, "I'll do it. I can get her to come with me."

Nat countered, "No she knows who you are, she won't go with you without a scene."

Sam weighed in again, "This is crazy, Barnes had me off my feet less than fifteen minutes ago, and now you want him to rub elbows with innocent tourists, seduce an arms dealer in public and do it without any general mayhem? You do recall the fight in D.C. right?"

Steve stood face-to-face with Sam, "Enough, we are a team. Let's act like one."

"You and Barnes are a team; we are the sidekicks. You're defending him."

"I will defend every one of you. And maybe you missed it, I'm agreeing with you about the plan."

Beebee's voice cut through their argument, "Well you four may play superheroes on the news, but I am seriously underwhelmed right now. Matter of fact, my whole world is crashing down around me, not only is my early retirement sinking in Cartegena, my heroine belongs to a team of wonky crybabies. Personally, I got out of a bad marriage because of bickering like this." Her acerbic curbside comments brought them to a halt. "Look, what do I know, I'm just a secretary, well not just, I'm a damn good secretary, but Maymay's got a thing for the Winter Soldier, trust me, she'll follow him anywhere. If she sees any of you, she'll make a scene like you've never experienced, if she sees me with you she'll make a scene; if she sees me by myself she'll wonder why I'm not working the hotel buyers and she'll make a scene. Your only hope of corralling her is that gorgeous hunk of man-flesh looking all kinds of together over there holding up that wall."

Beebee's nod directed all of them to follow her gaze towards Bucky who indeed leaned against the wall, one knee bent, his foot propped behind him, arms crossed, head tilted in one of his best puppy dog reminiscent "I'm not too sure what's going on right now, why is everyone staring at me" poses.

"Kneel down, Barnes." Romanova pointed in front of her. "We need to neaten you up a bit. Kneel down. I can't reach your hair."

Bucky stared down at her, a mix of concern, paranoia, intrigue, and exhaustion; he relented when Steve slipped his hand across the back of his neck and whispered, "A man-bun, never heard of it, but can't wait to see this."

Tenuous shuffled feet led to a drop to his knees; he eyed her move behind him with a good deal of suspicion only quieted by the tight grip he had on Steve's hand.

"No garrote. You haven't pissed me off to that level in a long time. I've downgraded my revenge to gaslighting you at home."

Bucky's suspicious glare over his shoulder was matched by the subdued look of horror that crossed Steve's face.

"Sorry, sorry, just a joke, a stupid, stupid, unfeeling joke. No offense. Now get your head over here and stop being so sensitive. You should trust me by now."

Natasha furrowed her brow as she pulled and tugged at his hair, deftly shaping it into a not-too-neat ball at the back of his head, she pulled a few wisps of hair out in the front, spit on a finger and patted down a wayward strand and smiled, "Maymay's gonna love you."

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the spit hair gel and frowned about the Maymay comment.

Steve pulled him to his feet, spun him a half turn and nodded his approval. "I like it."

Bucky muttered, "Liar," as he stripped off the leather jacket, dropped his guns in the backpack and took a long deep breath before stepping out into the ebb and flow of laughing, talking, dancing sea of humanity.

Steve asked, "What are we doing?" A metaphorical question more than a practical one.

Sam jumped in, "We're watching Barnes apply his true calling as a psychopathic stalker."

"I am keeping score." Natasha reminded.

Steve pulled his uniform jacket down and tied it around his waist. A concession to the close quarters and need to blend in for the sake of tailing Bucky. His slow meandering steps shadowed Bucky's wandering through the crowded square as his deceptive saunter brought him closer to the twirling, singing, spectacle that was target number two. His mirrored movements far enough away to not raise Maymay's concern should she see him but still within his reach if Bucky fell apart.

Steve's worried eye followed his every casual graze of material on the vendor carts, each curious glance towards the shoppers milling within inches of his reach. An ache crept up into his chest watching Bucky's barely hidden look of wonder as he took in the bright colored items, his hand lingering a few seconds longer on rough-hewn cottons, running soft silks through his fingers time and again only to drop the item when the vendor spoke to him. Steve's chest hurt with Bucky's gentle gaze lingered long on the couples, bodies pressed tight, swaying in time to the music, arms entangled, heads close. A close to uncontrolled urge to go to him, pull him into an engulfing embrace, burying his face in his neck and let the music move them together right out there on the plaza, in public, mission or no mission, dancing skills or none. His heart ached for Bucky.

"Everything okay?" Steve had to ask.

A thumbs up raked across Bucky's cheek. A clear signaled answer. An unspoken relief with the blue leather jacket shed, and his hair pulled off his neck in the lingering evening heat. A discreet hand slid along the small of his back, a ritualistic check for the two knives hidden beneath his T-shirt. One quick glance down to his boot, an accounting of the third knife barely peaking above his ankle. The metal arm uncovered, as natural to him as anyone else's flesh arm; no one seemed to take notice.

"I hurt you." Steve's quiet observation crept into Bucky's hearing.

The tilted head response signaled the words found their target; he didn't answer.

"You had to say it. Kiev. I made you say it."

A quick side-long glance towards Steve's position, his gaze flickered briefly away from Maymay's unique approach to weapons sales.

"That's not the first time, is it? You've thought it before, haven't you? Makes sense, you just don't say it."

A stranger would see the head shake as an annoyed encounter with an insect; Steve read it as a denial.

"Why wouldn't you say something?"

The metal shoulder rose and fell, a shrug that didn't answer one way or the other. Bucky moved along the line of bright colored carts, a self-imposed barrier between himself and the human sea of party-goers swirling in the middle of the plaza.

Bucky's quiet whisper, "Shut up. I told you. I'm fine."

"Hardly. You had to use the safe word."

"So. That's why we have the words. Right? You do your thing If I can't handle it. I say the word."

"That is not the plan. This is a two-way street here."

"Look, I like what we do; I want you to..."

"Stop!" Sam cut his sentence short, "Those of us with a remaining work ethic do not want to hear this conversation. Please have mercy."

"Cranky aren't we?" Bucky muttered and continued his voluntary mission to be the bait in their attempt to bring in the wayward administrative assistant, part-time arms dealer, Maymay.

Criss-crossed strings of lights danced in the night breeze, their bouncing glow a counterpoint to the festive music wafting across the tables and open center of the plaza. Laughter, chatter, the clinking of plates and glasses punctuated the strumming sounds of guitars and quick joyful cadence of singers. Bucky circled like the predator he was taught to be, a benign shadow figure creeping closer and closer to his unsuspecting prey.

The robust woman in the long flowing tangerine and white skirt, and off-the-shoulder tank top spun a dizzying circle, staggering ever wider as she let the booze, the night and the negotiations take her. Her contagious enthusiastic laugh spread across the clandestine arms dealers and tourists alike. Maymay was on a roll.

Bucky studied her technique. A quick mental note, each whirling spin brought her to four distinct tables. His mind stumbled over the fourth one. A quick head shake, his eyes darted left then right, he paused.

"You okay?" Steve's worried question filled his hearing.

"Four."

"Four? Right, four. Not three. Got it. Plus one, like we talked about."

Natasha chimed in, "One is good, three is divisible by one. Plus one is acceptable."

"What the hell are you all talking about?" Sam had yet to accept the three fetish workarounds.

Bucky clenched his jaw, "I'm good." He made his way to his chosen interception point.

"I love Cartegena! No really, I do. I love, love, love this place!" Maymay's enthusiastic endorsement of her current location rang across the plaza to the amusement of tourist, locals and most of the arms dealers. She spun, swirled and danced from table number two to number three. "Hello, my dears. How are you? I have forty-seven thousand reasons to be here. Will you make it forty-eight?"

A slight head nod from a man in a pressed white linen suit sent her cackling, spinning self on towards table number four. She grabbed a drink from a passing waiter, spun another full turn while sucking on a straw and headed for her next bidder.

Bucky's step hesitated. Table number four, caught in his mind. A cold sweat dripped down his back; a numbness clouded his thoughts. He pushed his foot forward, struggling to keep moving. The internal fight to overcome the anxiety-driven number obsession fell by the wayside when he heard a gasp. Maymay's alcohol-fueled spinning tripped over a stone and sent her considerable form hurtling towards a small child in a stroller. She screamed at the inevitable collision, her dangling, wrenching moves to avoid it only made it worse. The whole event slowed down, parents yelling, Maymay's scream, the cries of a terrified child all playing out like a stop-motion macabre train wreck until Bucky's metal hand connected with her arm.

The force of her fall dragged him forward to follow her trajectory; he dug his foot into the pavement, the resistance swung her in a wide-arching circle around him. Finally landing face-first into his chest, driving the air from his lungs, her arms wrapped tightly around his body, her sobbing wetness spread across his T-shirt.

Bucky stood frozen in place wearing the large weeping woman.

"Oh my god, you saved me. You saved that child. Thank you. Thank you." Maymay's hands wandered across his back, took in his hips, "Oh my, you're strong, look at you, feel you. Wow, tight. you're very tight." A caress of his thighs, a quick pinching exam of firm abs, hands settling on his ass, she gripped both butt cheeks with the certainty and enthusiasm only outdone by Steve.

"Remember to breathe, Barnes." The laughter in Natasha's voice was clear, "Talk to her. Ask to walk her home."

Sam chimed in, "Someone, get their phone out. Mine's dead. We need a picture of this, come on Nat. The look on his face is too much. He looks terrified."

Bucky searched the crowd for Steve. Eyes darting left and right, his hands at his sides, fear crawling up his body, unable to talk or move or think with this full body mauling grip, hands tightly wrapped in his flesh, a body not Steve's pressed to his chest; the panic sent fire across his brain. The urge to shove her off, throw her to the ground pushed his hands to grab her arms.

Steve's grounding voice came from somewhere, "You are fine. I'm right here. Look at me. On your left. Just look up."

Bucky slowly raised his eyes; a shiver ran through him until Steve stepped out from the gathering crowd. Near enough to see the blue of his eyes. "I've got you."

Maymay looked up at Bucky. "I know you?" She ran her fingers along his metal arm, awe in her eyes, her hand slipped around his bicep. "I know you."

He stared down at her, watching her fingers trace the grooves on his arm, the sensation of skin, sliding along the metal. Not Steve's skin. But not threatening either. Her touch gentle, a caress, careful exploration nearly not threatening, just enough to allow a breath, to stop his tremor. His flesh hand hinted contact with the small of her back. A stuttered hesitant, "I'm walking you home. Game's over. Okay?"

Maymay nodded.

Bucky bit his lip.

Steve started breathing again.

Natasha held up a skimpy multicolored bikini with several shiny objects dangling from various strings. "Nice choice Barnes." The mixture of surprise and admiration in Natasha's tone evoked an odd sensation in his gut. A feeling that resembled how he felt when Steve offered a word or look of praise. His mind forced the thought of enjoying Romanova's praise into a dark closet, slammed the door and threw away the key.

A pile of clothing laid in the middle of the passenger bay next to a ratty suitcase, two semi-functional Chitauri replica weapons, a bag of trail mix and six wet C4 detonator caps.

"I thought you didn't have any money?" Sam wondered. "You never pay for anything, ever."

Bucky ignored him and settled into a jumpseat across from Maymay who had hearts in her eyes as she stared at him. He tried hard not to make eye contact.

"Steve, an allowance? He does no chores whatsoever, and he gets an allowance?"

"No allowance," Steve called back from the controls.

"A credit card? Seriously, you gave him a credit card?"

"No credit card. Why?"

"There's a pile of stuff back here. Barnes went shopping. When the hell did he have time to shop? More importantly, how did he shop without money?"

"I have no idea, ask him. He's sitting right in front of you."

Natasha came to his defense, "Hey, at least he thought to get me a clean shirt, Wilson." She pointed at the "I Heart Cartagena" T-shirt that took the place of her vomit-covered uniform top. "That's a lot more than you thought to do."

Sam shook his head, "You stole all that stuff. I know it. I'm telling Steve as soon as we get back. Suck up."

Bucky smirked.


	5. Chapter 5 Maymay and Other Scary Things

"My leg's asleep." Steve pried at metal fingers wrapped tight around his right thigh, the aftermath of Maymay's intense adoring stare for the entire trip home. Bucky's attempts to ignore her had fallen into a staring contest, evolved into pacing, followed by a string of expletives, the dent in the overhead storage brought Steve from the pilot's seat. Bucky's forced retreat ended with him on the cockpit floor, tucked beneath Steve's leg, wedged into a tight ball of paranoia entertaining the Voice.

 _"She wants to kill you, Soldier. Kill her first. You're pathetic; there was a time you'd blow her brains out. The Captain has made you soft. End this ridiculous game. Snap her neck; she's no widow."_

"Hey, we're home. Let's get out of here." Steve raised Bucky's head, vying for his attention and pulling him from his pointed study of Maymay's feet, the only part of her visible from his vantage point.

"She's still staring at me. Why?" Bucky's gaze strained to stay on his perceived target.  
"She likes you." Steve pried at Bucky's fingers.  
"Why?"  
"Same reason I like you." He slid his hand under Bucky's, stretched his leg and wiggled his toes.  
"She wants to fuck me?"  
"What? No. Hey, look at me."  
Bucky let Steve drag his gaze around to him.  
"That's not why I like you. I mean, I like that but you're more than that." Steve studied his upturned face; the disconnection as the Voice won out, an anxious twitch of his eye, the pain buried deep into his features, a tilt of his head at the internal debates that he refused to share. "That Voice is talking. Tell me what it's saying. I want to know."  
Steve watched the uncertainty cross Bucky's face and shake through his body. Words near to spilling out, a spark of hope, the lightness of deciding to share a secret, the veil lifted for a heartbeat. It fell within seconds, his willingness beatdown, giving in to confusion, a victim of the close-guarded Voice.  
Steve fought down the envy that gripped his chest as he watched Bucky come near to trusting him with his darkest places only to choose the Voice again.  
"Nothing. Not talking. Not now." Mumbled words as he laid his head on Steve's leg.  
"When you're ready," Steve gripped his shoulder, reluctant to let the matter go, the tightened grip on his thigh told him otherwise, "I'll be ready."

"Listen Stark, with all due respect; it's my operation, my equipment, I have the working relationship with Rogers and his crew. I run the debrief." Fury stood square-shouldered and resolute in the double-wide trailer that served as their debriefing room, a larger-than-life projected image of Tony Stark shimmered across a faded gray wall. "You're welcome to listen in and get a full report, but I take the lead."

"Well, technically it's my intel now. They sent it to me; I did the research, I sent it to you. Oh, right, one small detail. It's my money. That should count for everything." The virtual Stark, seated in a swivel chair, worked an antsy half-arc with hands folded, head cocked, the picture of I-dare-you. "They knew what they were getting into when they sent me that data."

Fury pushed back, "That team and I have a good working relationship. Rogers is on board with my methods, his team trusts me. If we're going to work together, you need to let us work."  
"Wake up, Fury. Rogers trusts no one except himself."  
"And he chooses to work with my operation. Look, let's get this out on the table. I know what the issues are here."  
"Do tell? Can't wait to hear your theories."  
"You've got a bone to pick with Barnes, no one's gonna deny that. He's trying to make things right. I'm willing to help him. I'd like to think we've built some trust. I want to keep it that way."  
"Make things right? Wow. Okay. Can't wait to see how that goes." Stark stopped his swiveling motion and gripped the arms of his chair. "On the table it is; he's an insane walking time bomb that you're using to meet your agenda. Rogers good with that? He's protective you know. No worries. I'll keep quiet, let you do all the talking." A quick zip motion across his lips.  
"My agenda is out in the open, Stark, not sure you can say the same thing."  
The zip motion reversed, "Rogers is well aware of my agenda. We've had our late-night chats." He zipped his lips shut then open again, "Oh, Fury, bone to pick? Interesting choice of words." 

"Sam will bring the ladies. Nat and I will deal with Fury. I'll talk to Tony. You, stay here. I'll come back. Then we go home." Steve's instructions spoken close, his breath warm on Bucky's cheek, it drew an eyes closed, head tilted effort to brush against his lips. Steve's open hand pressed over Bucky's heart sent a flood of warmth to spread across his chest, he leaned his weight into the touch.  
"Why? I can take care of myself; I want to be with you." Bucky's reach to loop a finger into Steve's belt hesitated with the sound of Maymay's sucked in breath and the wag of Beebee's head in his peripheral vision.  
"I don't doubt that. Fury and his people aren't a problem but Tony's involved now. It's not safe."  
"Stark." He tucked his hands in his armpits, "You don't want me to embarrass you again?"  
"I don't want you getting caught." Steve patted his cheek and headed for the ramp.  
"I'm not afraid of him," Bucky called.  
"You should be afraid of Tony. One text and it's over. Just listen to me, do this. Stay here."  
"Stark." His anxiety moved him to follow, "Is this detention? Should I stand in the corner?"  
"Stop it, just stop." The quick turn to re-engage caused Bucky to stumble back.  
Steve's reach to catch his fall startled him; eyes darted towards the outreached hand, he jerked his head away, triggered responses buried deep, pulled from his body without thinking.  
Steve caught his arm, "I was trying to catch you," he pulled him in, a thumb raked through stubble, fingers tangled in the sagging mess of hair he dragged Bucky forward, wrapped him in his arms, forehead resting on forehead.  
"I want you safe. Tony's still angry. I want you to trust me. Please try."  
"Stark."  
"What?"  
"You keep calling him by his first name," Bucky muttered, eyes looking away, he rolled his cheek to rake his skin across Steve's beard.  
"I, it's not anything. I'm sorry." He dragged a thumb along the drawn lines of fatigue, the dark circles, trying to wipe or wish away the uncertainty that filled Bucky's mind and showed itself in every feature of his face. "Trust me, please. I'll get you. If anything goes wrong, take the jet and leave."  
"Are you telling me to steal the jet?" The hint of a smirk.  
Steve drove his fingers under the knot of hair, held close, he shook him, "You do whatever needs to be done. You understand me? I don't care what it takes."  
Bucky nodded, eyes closed, he leaned forward, asking for the kiss that Steve seemed reluctant to give, but did in the end. A quick brush of lips, dry and rough and gone before he could open his eyes again. "Fine, I'll wait." His muttered response too late for Steve, but heard by his audience of two.  
Maymay's heartfelt sentiment, "How romantic. I think I'm gonna cry," quivered through the bay.

"You haven't told him, have you?" Natasha glanced at the jet then turned to Steve as they headed towards the mission debrief office. A long low building a few yards across the snow-covered tarmac. Both scanned the presumed abandoned airport; their vehicles tucked with discretion beneath a canopy, Fury's SUV under a sagging carport, the setting sun peeking through the clouds to add a reddish glow to dirt-scarred snow.  
"Tell him what?" Steve pulled at his jacket collar.  
"No games, Rogers. The in-flight scolding by Fury for the past four hours pretty much all about Barnes."  
Steve stopped short, "Picture this I'm going to tell Buck that his few minutes of indiscretion hanging over the edge of that roof made it to the Instagram pages of a dozen tourists and of course grew exponentially." Steve's demonstrated headline, "Winter Soldier spotted in Cartegena, news at 11," gave way to a mocked tone, "Uncle Clem, look at this, we saw the Winter Soldier! Tried to get his autograph, no luck." A return to his dour post-mission persona, "This is why we flew under the radar for a thousand miles, avoiding Interpol."

Natasha countered, "My point exactly, you need to tell him about the consequences of his actions and the risk he's facing. The risk all of us face."

A frigid gust of wind pushed his steps forward, "Trust me, he understands the consequences of his actions. That reality visits him every night, takes up space in our bed, steals his dreams, fills his every waking minute with regret for the shit they made him do, forced him to do, he owns every disgusting second of it when it wasn't his fault. I hear the hybrid conversations, English and Russian, gibberish that isn't gibberish, it's pretty damn clear what he's feeling. I'm the one wrapped around him in the dark, night after night, telling him it's over, all in the past. But it isn't, is it?"

"No, it's not over, not his past and not now." Natasha's hand wrapped around his forearm, "Stark is a loose cannon; we're back on the radar. Barnes deserves to know."

Steve came back at her, "You were on the jet, right? Remember the way the sweat broke in your armpits at 300 miles an hour when his fist dented the cargo bay; you never did provide the translation to the rant he launched? If Maymay's school-girl crush fueled his paranoia, imagine what Stark's eavesdropping is going to do to him. He heard every word and what did Sam call it? Moist sound? Yup this is my fault, who am I kidding."

She stepped ahead of him an attempt to get his full attention, "Doesn't matter who's fault, no one's fault, you need to prepare him and tell him what's coming."  
"No. I need to protect him."  
"You want to protect him, but what if you can't. Isn't it better to prepare him?

He's not a child."

Steve dragged to a halt; he studied the cracked cement under his feet, "No, I get it, he's not a child. Do you get it, he struggles, he's not - stable. One minute we're good next, it's the deep end, and no one remembers how to swim." He tapped his heel on a patch of ice, working the frozen water until it cracked, buying himself time, he continued. "They doubled the dose of antipsychotics after the whole Shostokov mess. When I got out of the hospital, he was good, then not so good. The limp set him off, even after I was good to go, he kept asking how could I limp if I had the serum. Kept saying how that had to be 'the worst break ever,' how it was all his fault; then he moved to 'if only he'd gone back to Hydra if only he'd stayed with Mother if only'..."  
He let a heartbeat pass, words spoken more for himself than her, "Now he's always got his hand on that thigh, right over where it broke, at first I thought it was a habit, affection, but lately it seems like he's trying to change it, make it not real. Doesn't matter that I'm fine now."

Steve closed his eyes and let the wind cut across his face, grateful for the bite of a simpler kind of pain, he looked at Nat again, "He stares at me at night, I can feel his eyes on me, jolts me wide awake. Kneeling on the floor, inches from my face, staring in the dark. He'll pat my head and whisper, 'Watching you breathe. It's okay, go back to sleep.'" He glanced towards the jet and let a few seconds pass, "He touches me, a finger on my cheek or my pulse, scared me so bad, the first time I fell out of bed. His reason? 'You're real, right? Just checking, I thought you were dead.'" Steve shook his head; the hard tight blink fought back what he told himself were the cold-driven tears, "Funny thing, I do the same thing to him. I catch myself staring at him in the middle of a mission, in the kitchen, shoveling snow. I watch him sleep, when he does sleep, I wonder the same things, am I dreaming, hallucinating or is he here?"

Natasha let his words settle, "You two have a history of losing one another. Seems natural to wonder if any of this is real."

Steve allowed an uncharacteristic shudder roll across his shoulders, "Anyway, the medication increase helped some, now he sleeps three hours instead of two, except the side effects, are worse. Dry mouth, tired, other stuff," his voice trailed off. His eyes darted towards Natasha. "Sorry. Don't repeat that, talk about not helping his paranoia. Probably need to call my therapist or his or both."

Natasha shrugged, "Wouldn't hurt any of us; I suppose to process a few things."

Steve headed towards the double-wide, "Let's not forget that Fury's still pissed about him kidnapping his torturer and squirreling her away in a private prison instead of The Raft. He had an accomplice. Oh, wait. That was you." He pointed at her.  
She smiled, "He asked nicely. I'm a sucker for nice. On the upside, he worked past his three fetish."  
Steve answered, "Yup. There's the man-bun. Kinda liked that."  
Natasha matched him, "He saved a baby, corralled a part-time arms dealer and didn't melt down when she put him in a bear hug and left her snot on his T-shirt."  
Steve laughed, "Good one."  
She tucked her hands in her pockets, "He bought us all souvenirs."  
"Bought? Yet to be determined."  
"I've got a sweet bikini and a thoughtful T-shirt. What did he get you?"  
A faint blush of pink chased across his cheek, "Not telling."  
"A dildo?" She raised an eyebrow.  
"Ah, no."  
She asked, "What did Sam get?"  
He raised an eyebrow, "A dildo."  
"They sell those on vendor carts in the plaza? Wait," She grabbed his arm, "Does Sam know this? I haven't heard him take his name in vain yet."

Steve's walk towards the building stuttered to a halt; he scanned the surrounding hills in the fading light. Natasha followed his gaze.  
His half wonder, half actual question, "What about the trinkets he stole, bought, borrowed, the ones that were meant for the drug mules on the cruise ship?" A long deep sigh, "Do you think the cartel will come after us in Upstate New York for a cocaine-filled plaster statue of Gertrude? I hope not. Can we return it?" He shook his head, "No wait. We can't mail cocaine can we?" He turned towards Natasha, but his words were all for himself, "If Beebee hadn't clued us in the damn thing would be sitting on his bureau. Every night he'd pull me in there, expectant, a spark of hope in his eyes." Steve's gaze drifted back towards the jet, his voice barely a whisper, "He'd hold my finger on her breast, wrap around me from behind, laughing in my ear and beg, 'Stevie, we'll rub it for luck, like in Cartegena.' And I'd do it, no matter what I believe, or how fruitless or hopeful, I'll do it. Anything to get a semblance of a smile, to feel the tremors go quiet, I'll give him everything I have, my life and more just to take away that fucking haunted look. His pain looks me in the eye every day, defiant, wrapped around his soul, dug into his heart, holding him prisoner. It sits behind his eyes, daring me to try and free him, mocking me. He's in there, Bucky is, I see him, feel him, every day another glimmer, a smirk, his sarcasm, his wonder. But that damn Voice, that hurt and history, it's a sick joke, how it lets him come to the surface for a quick gulp of air then drags him under again. Laughing at us, taunting us."

Natasha's hand brushed against his cheek, "It's alright."

"What? What's alright? That he's tormented? Lost? That I failed him? What?"

"To love him."

Steve's steel-willed stubbornness pushed forward a frozen, wordless stare. It served as a last line of defense against spilling the roiling emotions that drove his words, especially to Romanova on the tarmac before facing Fury. His opened mouth attempt at a rebuttal, stumbled in his brain towards a lame quip then a swear only to land square at a near-confession, saved by Fury's bellowing voice.

"Rogers. What the hell is going on? I haven't got all night. Let's get this done."

Natasha squeezed his arm before he could escape, "He deserves the truth, Steve, whatever that is, you need to trust him."

Steve glanced back at the jet; a hard-fought stifled urge to abandon the debrief and head back to Bucky lost to his sensibilities. A fleeting wish that he'd left the comm in his ear, to hear his voice, gave way to being glad his words were only for Natasha's ears at least for now. He turned towards the building's door, yanked it open as they both scrambled inside, "Good to see you too, Fury."

"So you're gay?" Maymay's bare foot danced across the top of Bucky's unlaced boot.  
"What? No. Yes? Maybe? I don't answer to you." His stuttered response pulled a faint blush across his cheeks. He yanked his foot away from her and reached to tug his jacket from the storage bin over her shoulder. His cautious long stretch, toes kept far away struggle to untangle the balled-up jacket and drag it free without landing in her lap or inviting her unwanted touch drew a cold sweat, and a murmured Cyrillic swear word or two.

"Could you spare that lovely blue leather jacket, I'm not quite dressed for the North Pole," Maymay's full-body shiver escalated when Bucky allowed an apprehensive glance down in her direction. She caught the sleeve as it dangled between the bin and his hand. "There's a reason we live in Arizona, you know, this weather sucks. I promise I'll mail it to you when we get home."  
 _  
"You made eye contact, Soldat. What the hell are you thinking?"  
_  
Bucky's chosen path of clinging to Steve as a means of dealing with her adoration came under immediate reassessment with Steve gone and her hand entangled in one of his few possessions. A gentle moderated tug to free his jacket met with increased resistance.

 _"Kill her. Just kill her and take your stuff back."_

The internalized argument with the Voice debated the value of the old ways of doing things and referenced 'Steve's way' which at the moment did not involve killing anyone. He held to his casual-stance, firm grip on the collar of his coat.  
Maymay countered, "Fine, just let me wear it until you're done interrogating us," she matched his hold with full body weight, leaned back, feet braced attempt to wrestle it from his hand.

 _"She's not even a Widow, and you're letting her get the best of you. Kill her. Now. End this."_

A more than fleeting thought about 'What Would Steve Do' landed him on the tenuous plan of no-negotiation, less than brute force approach of pulling it from her considerable grip. The faint groan of stitches giving way told him time was of the essence; he drove a foot to the wall, let a curled lip snarl creep across his face and leveled his best 'this is over' stare directly in her hazel-colored eyes. An unconscious move to finesse loose the knife tucked at the small of his back; the blade cleared the sheath in a quick and silent glide.

 _"Now we're talking. Do it. Soldat."_

"Alright, kids, let's stop fighting." Sam's sudden words shook Bucky's concentration, his not-so-gentle slap at Maymay's hand loosened her grip, "You don't want that, it's only got one sleeve." He finished it off by prying her fingers from the blue leather. "You can't win. He grew up during the depression, very little stuff, now he loves his stuff. Don't piss him off, you'll snuggle in your prison bed, and we'll be listening to him counting steps, Natasha will be translating Russian epithets, and the well will run dry from the shower running all night. I need my sleep." He shoved the newly freed jacket into Bucky's chest and muttered, "Grade A restraint shown, not cutting her throat, now put your things away." Sam's pointed glance towards the blade in his hand, Bucky shook his head and returned a confused gaze. "We got this all under control here, right Barnes?" He watched for the slow nod; knife returned to its sheath agreement.

Bucky bit his lip and turned away from Sam's "I knew you did, man."

 _"Damn Birdman, always ruining everything."_

Undeterred, Maymay remained focused, "Bisexual then, if you're not sure. Oh, Beebee there's hope for us yet." She squirmed and ran a hand through her hair, boosted her breasts, the zip-tie handcuffs didn't hold her back.  
"Hope for what?" Bucky pulled the jacket tight around him, hand still flirting with the knife, he lobed his question from the far corner of the bay.  
"There's no hope for you," Sam interjected.  
"Fuck you." The required response.  
"Not you. Them. Then again there's no hope for any of you. Ladies, like it or not he's taken. Now if you don't mind saying your goodbyes to the benevolent, patient and remarkably restrained Barnes we are heading to prison. Well, you are heading to prison; hopefully, we are not."  
Beebee groaned her disapproval as well as a few choice expletives as Fury's men ushered her down the ramp. Maymay demonstrated other plans, her beeline drive for Bucky did not push him to step back, but drew him forward, his move for the knife conscious this time, he headed straight for her.

 _"End this now Soldat. She's a threat. She's going to put her hands all over you. Violate you, do something."_

A flash of movement from his left caused him to hold his charge. A muttered cry of "Damn woman you do not know how to read body language, do you?" Echoed through the passenger bay as Sam dove past him to drive his shoulder into Maymay's center of gravity, the move pushed the air from her lungs and dragged a groan from Sam. His calculations regarding her center were off by a hair; she didn't go down. A knee slammed into his groin, elbows pounded his back, hot pink nails raked deep bloody lines across his cheek, they fell to the deck in a hideous undulating heap of man and scantily clad woman.  
Bucky judiciously climbed onto a jumpseat, his squatted observation from a distance included keeping his knife unsheathed, just in case Sam lost.

"Jesus, she's strong. Help me, Barnes," Sam's plea muffled by the press of Maymay's breasts to his face. Her arms wrapped around his head, a grasp of her wrist to lock her hold in place, she threw herself into a head-back, full-throated growl as Sam waved his hands in a frantic attempt to tear her arms away or at least get Bucky's attention.  
The no-holds-barred struggle rolled side-to-side, a grunting, groaning, kicking mess that rolled under Bucky's feet, he dropped the toe of his boot to rock Sam's hip hard enough to push them both over and out from under his perch. A move that freed Sam's swing but did nothing for his breathing as Maymay's considerable form body slammed the air from his lungs.

Sam took advantage of the freer elbow room, his fist connected with her head, a weak shot given the lack of oxygen, he swung again but missed, his third one landed nicely to her jaw. Her angry wail next to his ear tore through his hearing; her teeth grazed his skin, he squirmed and drove his fingers into her armpit, swung a hand towards her face and snagged a fistful of hair. A balancing act of pulling to keep her teeth from clamping down on his delicate earlobe, the brawl fell into a lulled impasse of panting moaning flesh.

"Hey, you guys. He could use some help." Bucky's call to Fury's men standing by the SUV underscored by a come-this-way wave of his knife. "There, right there." He pointed it at the two exhausted bodies entangled on the floor in the center of the jet.

Bucky stood in the bay; weight swung to his right hip, a nonchalant juggle of the knife hand to hand, he watched in silence as Fury's men wrestled the screaming, crying administrative assistant turned arms dealer, Maymay down the ramp to the waiting SUV. Her final move of bracing both feet on the door frame to prevent being shoved inside was more than he wanted to see. He grimaced and looked down.

Sam lay splayed on the floor close enough to drag himself upright by climbing up Bucky's leg; he opted for extending his arm into the air. "Help me up."  
Bucky stared at him with the silent flat affect that reminded Sam of why he thought of him as an asshole.  
"It's the least you could do considering I just got my ass kicked for you. Come on, man."  
The slow reach of a metal hand connected with his and dragged him upright with dizzying speed.  
Sam poked at the scratches on his face, examining the blood on his fingers. "Well, that was invigorating. Right? You okay? Hate to return you to Steve damaged. Hell, you didn't even break a sweat. You're amazing."  
He called to Fury's men, "You guys have her settled in there, cuz I've done my time with her. All set? Yes? Good." Sam grabbed his jacket and limped down the ramp. He called back over his shoulder, "Later Barnes. You owe me."

"Six long strides down, three short across, six back up, three regular, and again." Bucky's out-loud description of his counting muttered through the passenger bay and kept him company as he waited on the jet for Steve. Fingers dragged through the half-falling bun; he shook his hair loose, the borrowed Natasha scrunchie tucked in his pocket with care.  
 _"Throw that out, Soldat. It'll piss her off."_  
A quick thought about the comms, an escape from the Voice, a wish to hear Steve's voice, to listen to his breath, maybe weigh in on how useless debriefings were, or whisper his name knowing full well how it would rattle his composure. He ducked to peek out each window facing the double-wide, two strides between each one, muttered Russian mixed with English epithets, a fatigue driven habit he worked to keep discreet most of the time.  
 _"Liar. You told Mother you forgot your Russian."_  
A sly smile as he made the turn up the far side of the jet, his toe connected with a discarded water bottle that skittered across the floor to lodge beneath the pilot's seat. A second bottle caught his eye; he kicked it with purpose, a floating projectile lobed over the open ramp and out onto the tarmac. A break from the rote pacing, a step to retrieve it, held up by his promise to Steve.  
"No leaving the jet." A muttered out-loud reminder.  
A quick search of the storage bins uncovered a variety of empty bottles; they landed in a crunching clatter when he dumped them on the floor. The simple, methodical game pulled his focus down, kick and bounce, kick and retrieve, a point for landing on the concrete, over and over, letting in the shadows of dark-clad men kicking a ball, laughing and running. Games played far in the past, another place, sounds of camaraderie, the tease of fake arguments, goals scored and lines debated. Dirt-scratched hatch marks, dust churned up by running feet, bodies crashing, kicking at a half-inflated ball. A passing question if he played the game or watched, his body memory told of muscles straining, a voice raw from screams or shouts, or never being used except to utter a few words. Flashes of faces, angry words, a shove that pushed him back, the surge of shame telling him, not so fast, not you Soldier. 

" _You would have humiliated all of them Soldat. They couldn't let you join them. You are their weapon."_

Bucky eyed the last water-filled bottle, a full-throttle kick, it sailed well over the ramp, on a clear trajectory to victory, he allowed a one-time indulgent, hands in the air spin of celebration cut short by the thwacked landing sound unlike any of the other bottles. His dared half smile faded. The cold weather didn't stop the sweat from breaking hard across his chest. Heart pounding into his temple, his stance frozen except for the dart of his eyes towards the ill-placed backpack of guns.

"You know littering in the State of New York is punishable by a fine of up to one thousand dollars or six months in jail. Per bottle. Let's see how many bottles are out here? Too many. Let's lock you up and throw away the key. Nice rap sheet. Assassin, asset, litterer, murderer. Impressive."  
Bucky braced for the searing heat, and quick death doled out by the thrustors embedded in Tony Stark's palms, he stayed eyes-wide-open and listed only one regret. What he got was the humiliating splatting wetness of a hard thrown plastic water bottle that burst against his chest.

 _"Shit Soldat. He's gonna torture you."_


	6. Chapter 6 Stark

Steve's hand gripped the doorknob to the debriefing trailer, a single plan in his thoughts; take the fight to Fury, deflect the blame from Bucky. Two somber, black-clad determined souls bent on defending their positions, they stood matching eye twitch for eye twitch, a wobble-legged table between them, hands flat on either side, they leaned in towards one another. The volley of accusations and questions batted back and forth monitored by the over-bearing projected image of Tony Stark.

Fury waded in, "Get Barnes in here, Rogers. He's part of this team isn't he?"  
Steve countered, "He is part of this team. He chose to sit this out. You threatened him the last time he heard from you."  
"He stole my helicopter. I wanted it back."  
"He gave it back. No harm done."  
"He's not stable. Winter Soldier spotted in Cartegena. Do you know how many news agencies carried that headline?"  
"He fulfilled the mission. Anyone care about that headline?"  
"All of you fulfilled the mission. He nearly destroyed it."  
"We're here with the targets, with the weapons. Mission complete. He was part of that."  
"He's a mess. He hasn't talked to his therapist in weeks. You're aware of that correct? His being on my team is contingent on his participation in therapy."  
Steve shrugged, "We're all a little behind in that department."  
"So he's blowing me off? I specifically asked for him to be here. We need to talk about what happened, and he's doing what? Giving me a middle finger?"  
Steve paused before answering, "No. He's not."  
Fury broke the stare-down to pace away and back again, "You didn't tell him."  
Steve straightened to shift his gaze to the image of Stark, he didn't answer.  
"You can't protect him forever." Fury's words echoed what Steve already knew. He squared his shoulders, content that Bucky would remain as promised safely on the jet, he let Fury's questions fall to the background as he turned his focus to the swiveling image of Tony Stark looming over the room.

Fury shifted gears,"Who are these women? What do you mean they're fake?"

Sam jumped in, "The women are real. I have the scars to prove it. They are real administrative assistants. Did I get that right?" He glanced towards the blanket-wrapped Beebee, enshrined in a hard wooden chair, an anxiety-fueled frenetic bounce to her knees, a raised middle finger her silent answer. 

"Nice. Barnes teach you that?" Sam dumped their confiscated haul on the table, "One ratty plaid suitcase, two replica Chitauri weapons, six wet C4 detonator caps, a bag of slimy nuts and two wanna-be arms dealers, employees of a movie prop storage facility. You've met the eloquent Beebee over there and the brawn of their operation, Maymay, is currently chewing on the interior of the SUV. And no don't let her out." He two-finger raised the open trail mix bag, "That was trail mix once, you can deduct the cost from Steve's cut. Barnes picked out the dried blueberries. You'd think he lived a deprived life the way he eats. You should have seen him picking through this, touching every piece, it was grossly unhygienic, sadly obsessive really." His voice trailed off as the room stared at him.

Beebee seized the silence, "Where do I sign to throw that damn Maymay under the bus. The bitch. This was not how my vacation was supposed to end. I had no idea they were real arms dealers. Please, I have to get home, I only left three days of food for my cats. Damn it."

Steve allowed a few keywords to settle in his mind as Beebee rambled on about "Playing at being spies and "Boosting her retirement funds," his gaze and attention remained locked on the silent, swiveling image of Tony Stark. A quick flick of his wrist, a turn of his eye, left to right, an implied interest in the back and forth of the heated confrontation with Fury. The shimmering image danced across the wall, a hazy representation of the man that tried to kill them both not that long ago, now reaching out to work with them, a tenuous partnership made more unstable by a near-disastrous mission. He examined the nagging question from every angle, "What the hell is he up to?"

Bucky got to the chastising statement before the Voice did, "Some Soldier you are, he snuck up on you loser." An internal scolding, a regrettable look of surprised confusion crossed his face, he scrambled to hide behind a semblance of his former icy mask. The hot flush of panic, chilled by the cold water that clung to his cheek and trickled across over-heated skin, gave way to a tenuous calm. He resisted the urge to wipe his face and allowed his eye to flicker down and back, a head-to-toe threat assessment of Tony Stark. High top sneakers, pressed jeans, black hoodie, a lingering eye on the harsh white light embedded in the gauntlet palms, a steadying breath before his gaze locked into the inevitable stare with the man who wanted him dead.

 _"You're a fucking idiot. Soldat. We could be tucked in bed with the Captain right now, but no, you had to get drunk, had to piss off Iron Man."_

A red gauntlet finger wagged at the water bottles scattered on the tarmac, "I hate to cut short your pathetic moment here. Sad and maybe just a tiny bit funny, the Winter Soldier playing bottle soccer." Raised hands waved, a throaty huffed, "Scooooore." The short laugh fell away, "Game's over. Time to make good on your promise, or did you forget?"

The faint side-to-side move of his head, Bucky's hint at his answer, he fought down the familiar swell of nausea that cramped through his gut. An urgent, burning pain beneath his sternum, a forced hard swallow of too little spit to keep from puking up his stomach contents. Bucky dared a glance towards the windows, a tilt of his head to peek at the debrief trailer, a silent hope to see Steve running across the tarmac. Eyes darted back in a heartbeat.

Stark tapped his ear, "Rogers isn't coming. I'm listening to the debrief, you know how those are." A quick pace along the quinjet opening, he sing-songed, "Boring." A turn to retrace his steps, "Or maybe you don't know." A red metal finger directed at Bucky, "Hydra didn't include you, right? They wouldn't include a weapon in a debrief. You were just an asset. No wonder you sit them out. Nothing to offer."

 _"You are the asset, Soldat. Nothing more. A weapon, not human, not equal. A thing to be used."_

A shame-driven heat gave way to his anger, an entwined rush that reddened his skin choked back his air and demanded a leap across the passenger bay, achance taken with the repulsors, to dig metal fingers into a vulnerable throat. Muscles tightened, weight shifted, a toe stuttered forward, the uncontrollable tremor ticked his head, a split second hesitation before lunging.

 _"He's a bastard. Do it Soldat. Your death will be glorious."_

A muttered, "Not glorious," grabbed at his step, a pause that let Bucky replay Steve's words "I want you safe" the ghosted sensation of hands on his cheeks, lips teased close to his own, he reined in his obedience to the Voice and stood his ground.

Taunting words and a huffed laugh, "Glorious? Hardly." A waved hand called him forward, "Come on, I told Rogers to tell you when I'm ready; I'll take you up on your offer to surrender. This fits my schedule. Boring board meeting, piece of shit surrender, cleansing mud bath, intimate dinner for two." The arm extended, open-handed wag of fingers urging him to cross the bay, "Let's go."

Anxiety pushed Bucky's leg into a rhythmic tapping spasm, he drove metal fingers into his thigh, pinching skin to pucker blue and black trying to distract its crawl across his flesh. A scrambled recall of conversations with Steve, a fight to remember missing details, uncertainty showed on his features, doubt raced across his face, he struggled to hide his confusion.

 _"You might consider letting the Soldier handle this, Soldat. You seem to be losing your shit here."_

Stark let his arm drop, "What's the matter, he didn't tell you? So Rogers is keeping secrets from you. Why am I not surprised?"

Bucky's locked on stare faltered, eyes darted right then left, doubt leaped in when his mind raked through remnants of words shared with Steve, searching for a hint that he'd told him Stark would come to collect on his debt.  
 _  
"You can't remember because he didn't tell you. I warned you about this. He's keeping secrets from you."_

The beckoning wag of red metal fingers followed Stark's command, "Look, I'm on a tight schedule." Anger crept into his tone, "Let's go, you gave your word. Chop-chop."

Confusion stepped aside for survival, Bucky tucked away questions of truth and loyalty to allow a cold, measured assessment of his next best move. Eyes darted right for the windows, still no Steve, he glanced left to the backpack, three long steps for his guns, short distance, poor planning leaving them there, high risk for injury. A hand on his knife, easy move, dive away, an efficient toss towards Stark, only one attempt, six long seconds, make it count. Tuck, roll and rise in his face, nine seconds, hand-to-hand better odds without the Iron Man suit, unless it's there and he can't see it. The click, click, click evaluation rolled to a finish in his mind, a settled cold, firm gaze locked again on Tony Stark.

"Well, decision made." Stark smirked, "You first. I warn you, I'm extremely confident I can fuse your body to the bulkhead before you twitch to make that calculated move. Just think of Steve, finding your skull embedded in the pilot's seat."

 _"Do it Soldat, you've wasted enough time. He's got the upper hand, take the loss, an arm, a leg so what. It'll cauterize, you keep going. Do it. You pathetic loser."_

Tight muscles coiled, a deep grounding breath pulled in slow and subtle, hiding the boiling heat of anticipation, his brace to make his move interrupted.

Stark pointed at him and paced, "Tell me something? You said you remember all of them. Do you remember one more than the other? Or is it all equal? Is it based on the amount of blood, the degree of brutality? A post-mission Hydra cookie. What?"

A choked and whispered, "What the fuck?" Tumbled out of Bucky's mouth, a pulled ragged breath to quiet the tremor that ripped across his muscles, Stark's questions enough to sidetrack the plan to fight.

Stark stepped towards him, heat in his tone, "You gave yourself up." A raised pointed finger, "You sobbed at my door. Did you forget already? 'I'm so ridiculously sorry' that's a direct quote, happy to play you the tape." More rushed steps forward drove Bucky to stumble back, an attempt to hold the space between them. Stark pressed on, "Was that the alcohol talking? In that case, I'm happy to end your shit life right now." The palm up, white light of the repulsor cast a bright glow dead center on Bucky's chest. "So, a lie, a game, a blackout, or did you just forget?"

Bucky's mind tripped through the all-too-real images of blood and brutality strewn across his past. He held close the answers to Stark's rapid-fire questions, the sought after blackout that never came, mission rewards of unwanted sex, cold floors and darkened cells, wounds of punishment without release, the encompassing comfort of cryostasis. He stuttered his answer, "I didn't forget."

"You didn't forget what? Who you killed? That you swore to give yourself up? Is this a brainwashing side effect? Intermittent memory loss. I should write a paper on that, we'll use your brain posthumously when you donate it to science."

 _"He's right you know. Death is the best atonement. Not toy guns or destroying_ _the_ _rapid transit in Boston."_

Bucky's eyes closed, a roll of his head betrayed the momentum lost when the Voice said what he already knew, the only true atonement came with his own death. He fell lost in his own thoughts when Stark's words spoken close to his ear cut across his hearing.

"It's Rogers. That's why you're backing out. One more good fuck with Rogers. Is that it?"

The too-close to truth accusation spoken within inches of his face startled Bucky to scramble backward, shoulders collided with the wall, gauntlet hands blocked his slide to escape, the trapped-driven shudder and frozen panic kicked open the door to his life in the Red Room. Accusations echoed, the Soldier, eyes down, contrite and chastised, surrounded by black-clad men. A stern-faced woman, the fiery sensation of electricity coursing through his body, the only name he knew her by Mother. Angry words tossed back and forth between her and a man, tall and dark, rage swirling around him; hands on his body dragging him away, the distant sounds of a young woman crying.

 _"Your stupidity got that girl killed. You just couldn't keep it in your pants."_

He shook his head, a muttered answer to the Voice, "No. Not true. Not what happened."

"Not true? Okay, fine. Not sure what Kiev was about or the moist talk. Be that way. Now, let's get out of here."

 _"You're weak. He knows about Kiev, did you hear that? He knows. You need to end this. Kill him."_

"No, I can't do that." His answer to the Voice's demands, his gaze shifted towards a spot over Stark's shoulder, drawn to the shadow form of the Voice that stress pulled from his mind.

"No? Look you piece of shit." Stark's hand shoved his back into the wall. "If you fight me here, now. Rogers is going to come running out of that building, screaming your name. No shield. They'll be a fight, someone's going to get hurt. Did I mention no shield? I have the suit, I told you, modifications, it'll be Siberia all over again. You made a promise. He's going to get hurt. Is that what you want?"

 _"Kill him. He's going to torture us. He'll kill the Captain. Is that what you want?"_

Bucky's eyes stayed locked on his shadow companion, his words meant for him only, "No. I won't do it."

"Damn it." Stark's frustration made more evident by the sudden jolt of the repulsor's fire tearing through the jumpseat next to Bucky's leg. Burning heat, smoldering cloth against his thigh dragged forward the searing pain of hot knives pressed to his flesh, inflicted for control, not meant for cautery but to subdue his fight. Stark's voice morphed into the sounds of Russian words growled in his head, demanding his cooperation, "Do it, Soldat. Get over here. Obey your commands. If only you'd obey the first time – we wouldn't have to hurt you like this."

A hard shiver ran through his body, cold sweat dripped down his back, Stark's demand to turn around, repeated twice and a third time fell victim to the Russian words screaming in his head. A red gauntlet hand grabbed his shoulder, his body lost its tension, the spin to shove him face first into the wall, received no resistance. Pounding heartbeats throbbed into his temples, he strained to look over his shoulder, to keep the Voice's shadow in his sight.

Black metal handcuffs dangled in his vision, Stark's words overwhelmed by the rising cacophony of the dead that roared back into Bucky's mind, "A gift just for you, vibranium, King T'Challa made them for this special occasion."

Muscles fell slack, fight-or-fight succumbed to the pressured click of a handcuff locked around his metal wrist, a final rush of panic slipped away when the tight cold metal embraced his flesh hand. Bucky let his body go slack pressed against the wall, eyes closed, he gave in to Stark's gauntlet hands on his body. Scrapped skin at the nape of his neck, unrecognizable whispered words hot against his ear. Stark dragged him away from the wall, he stumbled, his hair caught in the gauntlet's grab of his collar, a mixed memory of the pleasure-pain of dark nights, hands pulling his hair, Steve's fingers raking along his scalp. Stark shook him upright.

 _"You're a fool. Soldat. Giving in. You like this don't you? Being tortured. Being used."_

Bucky hesitated, "No, no I don't. I don't want this."

"Too late now. We are done. I told you I've got a timetable here." Stark shoved him forward.

Bucky staggered towards the ramp, directed by Stark's hand on his back, shadowed figures filling in the empty space, faces of the dead forming around him, the sounds of dying filling his ears, he dragged his steps, reluctant to be shoved into their midst. Stark's hands on his body, pushing him forward, pulling him into the sea of the dead, bloody hands reaching out, a slap to his face, sharp nails digging into his skin, none of it visible to his captor, all of it as real to Bucky as the day it happened. His thoughts slipped into the dark space of emptiness that protected what was left of his mind all those years with Hydra. His will slipped away as Stark shoved him towards the tarmac to fall to his knees surrounded by his ghosts.

The near to real shadows circling around him, dark-dressed men, laughing at him, dim lit cells, backroom safe houses, hands on his head, stroking his hair, dry, calloused fingers raked across his cheek, forcing his mouth open. A sob fought to the surface, he swallowed it down, he couldn't hold back the choked out words, "Please don't make me do this."

Fury's voice joined in the bubbling noise that teased Steve's what's-wrong-with-this-picture concentration. The low rumbled protest,"We vetted this mission, the meeting is real, the weapons are real, we'll tear this apart and find the problem."  
Beebee's litany of swearing had evolved into a full-on wail.  
Natasha argued with Sam about who actually put the scratches on his face, threatening to side with Barnes in all future conflicts if Sam had egged him into a fight. Citing "You're the responsible one." Sam arguing that Bucky, "Is capable of being responsible if anyone actually held him accountable."  
Steve continued to stare at the swiveling, repeating, silent image of Tony Stark.  
The too silent, too repetitive image of Stark.  
He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes, a replay of the last thing Stark said to him. "When I'm ready to take what I'm due it'll be on my damn terms, not his."  
He put a hand to his ear, "Buck? Are you there?"  
Sam weighed in, "You're as delusional as he is if you think he's still wearing that comm-link. He tosses that as soon as he has eyes on you."  
Steve took one last look at the image of Stark and headed out the door. His "Shit. Bucky," caused Natasha, Sam, and Fury to follow hot on his heels.

Steve's heart pounded in his chest, the tight cold air burned in his lungs, the throb in his temples sending a not-familiar ache across his brow as he raced towards his worst fear. His skidded stop close enough to see the fear on Bucky's face, arms bound behind him, kneeling in the snow, tremors shaking the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair that fell across his face. He stayed hands raised, a tenuous coil of ready to move and caution, he glared at Tony Stark but sent his quiet words towards Bucky, "Hey, you okay?"

Bucky squinted in the last light of dusk, recognition chased confusion across his features, the only answer he would offer, a quick flash of acknowledgment gave way to fearful disconnection. Steve knew the look; the fixation of his gaze on something beyond the real, muttered conversations, a realization that the seizures wouldn't be far behind.

Steve shifted his focus, "What the hell are you doing Stark. I thought we had an agreement."

Tony moved metal fingers to regrip Bucky's throat, forcing his head to press firm against his thigh, he aimed a palm-up repulsor towards Steve. "I am doing what I told you I would do. Taking him in. My timetable, the van is on its way. You knew this would happen."

Bucky's begging glance up, rocking his head against Stark's leg, a muttered plea "Please don't make me do this, please I'll do anything you want. You can fuck me. I don't care. Just don't make me do it in front of him. Please."  
"What the hell are you talking about? Fuck you? I don't want to fuck you. I want to kill you, if I can't have that, I'll be happy with The Raft." Stark drove a knee into Buck's back knocking him off his thigh but held the choking hold of his throat.  
Steve's angry surge forward, held back not by the threat to himself but by the glowing flash of the repulsor as it pressed against Bucky's skin. "You're out of control, Stark. He's not a threat to you or anyone anymore, let him go."  
"I understand you two are an item. I heard all that moist talk, Kiev, the safe word. Rogers, how very 21st Century of you." Stark leaned towards Bucky to add, "No conjugal visits where you're going. Sorry."

Steve's anxious steps paced back and forth, daring to move close, pushed back by Stark's repeated shake of Bucky's head, "You son of a bitch. You've lost your mind. He's sick, look at him. Does he look like a threat? He's about to have a seizure. You see those tremors, the sweat, you see how he's staring off at something we can't see? That's the precursor to a seizure. Let him go."

Bucky's gaze swung towards Steve, his breathing quick and ragged, the tremors distinct and uncontrollable, a near sobbed warning, "I can see her. Steve, I can see her."

"Don't say it. Buck, it's not real. Don't say it." He dropped to his knees, blocking his view of what he knew was a vision of Maria Stark, "It's okay, you don't need to say it." Steve begged, desperate to keep him from telling Stark, his reach to touch his face, held when Stark jerked Bucky away.

"It's her. I can see her." Fear rasped through Bucky's words.

"Please let it go, I know you can see her. Trust me, let it go." Steve stood up, his move to get closer, calculated, measured, a plan to take the chance with both of their lives.

Tony barked, "What kind of bullshit is this? You're seeing things? Going for the insanity plea? Stark leaned closer, his eyes followed Bucky's gaze, "It's black out there, no one is out there. Maybe you are crazy. Who are you seeing?"

Steve's lunge forward, "No Buck, don't tell him," thrown back by the quick non-lethal flash of the repulsor, he scrambled to his feet too far away to stop Bucky's answer.

A tremulous, whispered, near to innocent secret shared, "Mrs. Stark. She's right there. She comes to me. No words. Just pain. Fingers pressed through my forehead into my brain, everything goes white. She's coming."

Stark sputtered, "What? You piece of shit."

Bucky's coughed gasp as the metal hand cut off his breathing, "Steve," his choked word, Stark's foot slammed between his shoulders, twisted his head and dragging red lines in his flesh, he fell face-first on the tarmac, blood staining the snow. The bright white repulsor, a full-throttled whine glowed hot on his back, the shot flying errant across the tarmac when Steve plowed head-long into Stark's chest, they tumbled and rolled across the frozen concrete.

Glowing repulsor beams flashed across the night sky, as Steve drove a fist into Tony's face, he stayed body to body close, an attempt to keep Stark from pulling in the Iron Man suit. The wrestling match rolled through snow and icy puddles, more a schoolyard brawl than a fight between Avengers, the gauntlets fell away as the fight lost steam. Tony fisted his hands in Steve's jacket, he growled, "He's mocking me. He's in fucking handcuffs, on his knees, and he mocks me about killing my mother?"

Steve dragged them both to their feet, he held tight to Tony's shirt, fists ready, leery of the reappearance of the gauntlets, a struggling angry dance of mistrust between two men who had once been friends, Steve defended, "He's not mocking you. You have no idea. I tried to tell you. But you're so full of ego you wouldn't listen. Asshole."

Stark shoved his hand away, "You threw away the shield and our friendship for that piece of crap."

"You don't know me very well if you think I'd walk away from him." Steve's move brought them chest-to-chest.

"You're on an international watch list because of that thing." Stark's wild point towards Bucky brought the red gauntlet back into view.

Steve's lunge for Tony's wrist renewed the wrestling struggle, the push and shove interrupted by Natasha's demand, "Enough. Steve, get over here. He's having a seizure. Get over here."

Steve pushed Tony away, he scrambled to lift Bucky into his lap, legs stretched out around him, arms wrapped across his body, his head fell back on Steve's chest. "Got you, I'm right here, pal."

Bucky shivered whisper, "I'm cold," a faint smile towards Steve before muscles tensed and jerked, gray eyes glazed over, pupils wide and empty, they rolled back white. The shaking rhythmic stiffness bouncing hard against Steve's body, his head crashing into his chest. Steve's constant murmured reminder "I got you. Not letting go."

Bucky rode out the jarring powerful roll of tension that tore through his muscles, stole his consciousness, wiped away his safety, wrapped in Steve's body, absorbed with willingness. "I got you, it's all gonna be fine. I got you." Hands ran through soaked hair, pulled blood from his face, words spoken even if he wasn't sure they were heard. "Never gonna leave you."

White beamed headlights bounced around them, a large black van sped closer, it's headlights hiding the occupants, it pulled up next to Tony Stark.

"This could get ugly." Fury muttered as he took up a wide-stance position, gun drawn a few feet between the idling van and Steve holding Bucky.

"I am so ready for a hot shower, supper and bed, let's get this over with." Sam stood to his right.

Natasha moved to Fury's left, stun wands in hand. They waited for Stark's next move.

A small shiny metal object lobbed in an arc sailed through the lights from Stark's toss to land on Bucky's chest. Steve blinked the keys into focus as the van and Stark sped away.

Steve pulled Bucky's arm around him, it fell limp to the tarmac, his weight heavy, it pressed unmoving across his body. The ache that started in the center of his chest crawled out from his gut to spread throughout every fiber, tearing at his heart, haunting his mind, bringing him back to that moment on the train. The day he lost Bucky the first time. His fingers dug deep into his neck, searching for a pulse, panic filling his mind until he felt the thready erratic thrumming under his fingers. A sigh as he laid his cheek on his head. All-encompassing arms and legs, he rocked his body, pressed tight against his own and whispered, "Not letting go."

Somewhere in the background, he heard Fury order, "Call an ambulance."  
Steve shook his head, "No. No hospitals. Call Cassie's clinic. We're going home."


	7. Chapter 7 Answers Begin

Bright pinpoints of light scattered across the dark blue-black of a clear night sky danced past the open window as they sped down the road. Cold night air stung Steve's face and pulled at his hair as he let his head fall back, eyes closed, inviting in faded memories. Two boys lying in the back of a slow rumbling Chrysler, open-window, night sky watched upside down, an echo of Bucky's laughter as his finger chased the passing stars. Bodies tangled, bare feet flirting in the darkness, falling asleep to the rhythmic sway of travel safe in Bucky's arms.  
Steve's measured slow breath in, long exhale out, an exercise in steadying for his return to reality in the aftermath of their encounter with Stark. Eyes opened to meet Natasha's concerned gaze in the rearview mirror as she sped them jarring down the road, his visit to the past gave way to the ache of cradling a tremor-wracked Bucky tight to his body in the back seat.  
The rasped-voice confession spoken against his chest, "My fault, all my fault. I tried to do what you wanted; I stayed on the jet. I didn't kill him. The Voice kept saying kill him, kept saying do it, do it. I didn't. It told me, 'Don't let him put the handcuffs on' but I did. It was like them, like Hydra. I was stupid, stupid me. I let him." A head-shaking whisper hot against Steve's ear, "They came, the ghosts came, I saw them all around me. Then she came. You know who. I told him, Steve I told him. Shit, now he'll come after you. He hurt you." He pushed himself up, a worried stare, "Are you hurt? He hurt you. I'm sorry, so sorry." Bucky's hands darted over Steve's head, touched his cheek, squeezed his arm, searching for injuries.  
Steve grappled with his wrists, "No, I'm not hurt. I'm fine, I'm sorry, I should've brought you with me. I trusted him." He tugged at bent knees, arms wrapped around Bucky, pulled him close, face to his neck, hand in his hair, dragging him full into his lap, holding the words and tears tight to his skin, "I'm sorry, I trusted him. I was wrong." Eyes darted to the rearview mirror again, Natasha's gaze towards the sky, following the crisscrossing shadow of Sam as he led them towards home. 

"No more medications, no more side effects," Bucky pointed at the petite middle-aged woman standing at the downstairs bedroom threshold, "No more doctors." His raised voice cracked as he prowled, wet footprints tracked across the wood, water-soaked hair dripping down his body missing the towel wrapped around his waist. The counted-step agitated pace shook the towel loose, Steve pulled it from the floor and followed to cover him from Cassie's view as she averted her eyes.  
Steve offered, "She's not a doctor, remember." He struggled to wrap the towel around his moving body.  
"Yeah, yeah I remember, a nurse practitioner. I know, same but not the same. No more. It's not working; I had a fucking seizure. You don't get it. No one gets it." Six steps to the wall, touch the mirror, six steps back, touch the door frame, repeat. His point towards her as he passed by, "Don't come near me," withdrawn as quickly as it happened.

Steve kept himself between Bucky and the door, calmness to balance the fear-driven rage spawned by the Stark-induced seizure. Helpless to counter his panic over losing control.

Cassie's words sure and quiet, "James, the seizure likely had to do with the alcohol, stress and missing the medications," spoken from a distance, as someone trusted despite Bucky's adamant refusal to allow her near him. "You drank two quarts of vodka correct? Then went on a three-day mission, you said you didn't eat, you didn't take the medications with you. There was a triggering event. A break-through seizure is inevitable."

Bucky's path and tone veered towards her, "Triggering event? What the fuck?"

Steve's arm around his waist guided him back into the room, "Yup, Stark triggered all of us. Let's stay focused."

The flare gave in to the redirecting hand, "Focus? Six steps, Right? Was it six or five? Shit." He stumbled, lost in his thoughts to regain the count. An eyes closed deep breath to resume his pace, "Yes two quarts. That's it, two, not three, that's why it went wrong. It should have been three. No, I didn't eat, they don't feed the asset on missions. No, I don't drag the meds with me everywhere I go. Only their drugs are allowed, not mine." His veer towards Cassie captured by Steve. Bare feet matched to wet footprints, he tapped a finger to his head, and kept going, "You don't see it, do you? There are rules. I have to follow them."

Steve worked to hold his disappointment close; his eyes met Cassie's neutral look, soft without showing her thoughts. An irrational urge to push her out of the room, slam the door and shove a bureau up against it came and hung around. He turned to intercept Bucky.

A full stop when Steve stepped in his path, Bucky leaned close to whisper, "I have the serum, too, I know it's not as good as yours, I know I'm defective, it's not the same, you can't get drunk you said that you tried, when was that? It didn't work? Why do I have to take the medications if I have the serum too?" His leaned in tremulous questions shook drops of water on Steve's T-shirt, feet moving in place, searching his face for answers.

"You're not defective. It was different, who knows. I did try, once a long time ago." Steve slipped fingers over the edge of the towel, pulling Bucky close. "Not now, I'll tell you all about it later. You're soaked, naked and hungry, let's make sure you're okay."

Bucky let his hips swing forward with Steve's pull before panic rushed across his features. A suspicious glance towards Cassie, he leaned to Steve's other ear, "No needles, no exams, no meds," his whisper close as their foreheads brushed.

"Fine, how about clothes, food, and sleep. I'll be with you."

A metal finger brushed the front of Steve's pants, "Shower too? Together, right?"

Steve caught and held his wrist, "You were just in there for ninety minutes."

"Is there a time limit?" His flesh hand too quick for Steve to intercept.

He tugged Bucky's hand from his crotch and held on, "Cold water for ninety minutes."

A step, chest to chest, "Wilson gets mad if there's no hot water. I'm helpful." Bucky's mouth brushed his cheek.

"Your lips are blue, and your toes are pruned." Steve's skin flushed when Bucky licked his mouth as he spoke.

"So. You used to want to see my pruned ass." Hips turned to rub between his legs.  
Steve fought down the urge to pin his arms behind his back, toss him on the bed and implement the slammed door, bureau barricade but the impending conversation about Kiev and Cassie in the doorway made him change his tack. "I recall you telling me that cold showers are like cryo. Is that what you wantm to sleep without feeling? I thought you were over that."

Bucky went still, "Fuck you."

"Maybe later. But right now you need to get dressed, eat food and take your meds."

"No meds, no food, no clothing." The towel thrown to the floor.

Steve caught his arm, "Enough, let's go," a glanced apology towards Cassie before the bathroom door slammed behind them, his foot dropped the toilet seat, he pointed, "Sit."

Bucky muttered, "No."

Steve's firm, "Yes."

A defiant matched in firmness, "Make me."

Steve square-shoulder faced Bucky's wild-eyed, angry, wet tendrils of hair hanging well past his shoulders, distracting nakedness. A last-ditch spark of logic fired too late as Bucky's gaze dropped to slide down his body, a smirk as his eyes lingered on the apparent growing bulge. Steve's sighed and muttered, "Fuck" as he reached to bring their mouths together, was met by Bucky's "Yes."

Adrenaline flushed red across his skin, fingers wrapped around Bucky's head, holding him to the kiss as Steve's body drove him back, a last-second crash into the wall averted by his outstretched arm. Steve wrestled with taking what he wanted and his growing worry over Bucky's too-willing acceptance of rough touch, his passive agreement with the deep push of his tongue, the allowed press of a hand around his throat. Kiev as an after-thought or not being used at all. He slowed the kiss; hands slipped to the wall, weight raised enough for light to slide between them. A closed eyes thrill of hands pulling open his pants, warm flesh stroking his cock, a tilted head back ask for Bucky's kiss to follow, a mingled groan as his mouth pressed hard on his own, driving his tongue deep, stealing away his breath.

Steve raised his arms when Bucky tugged the T-shirt over his head, a conscious mantra to give him this moment, his mind vacillated between submission and command, he fought down the drive to take control. Hands twitched to leave their dark evidence across biceps. Steve held back, wanting this to be Bucky's choice, moving his body, opening himself to Bucky's mouth pulling at his nipples, flesh pinched by teeth, tongue leaving wet streaks to tease the tip of his cock. Fingers braced gently on his shoulders, a thumb stroking a clean-shaved cheek, not directing or wrapped in hair but connecting, nerve-endings firing with the heat of allowing Bucky to take his body.

Fingers dug deep into his ass, pulled hips, an uncontrolled groan as Bucky took him in, tongue slipping along his shaft, circling, sucking, drawing blood to tighten his skin, a hand-full of hair grabbed and released, a fight to stay passive. Steve's breath panting as Bucky dragged himself up his body, mouth biting at his flesh until he pulled a bruise below his ear and breathed, "I want you inside of me. Right now."

Steve rolled his head against his cheek; a muttered, "No," went ignored as Bucky turned his back, hands pulled Steve's hips into his own, pushing his ass back, urgent pressure. Steve followed as he laid his weight across Bucky's body pinned against the wall, face dug deep into his neck, breathing in the scent of soap and years past. He held still, body heavy against taut muscles, mouth pressed to his throat, his hand wrapped around Bucky's cock, pulling slow, gentle strokes, fighting down the questions of consent and the past, pushing aside haunting imaginings of what he knew and what might have been over the seventy years of being lost. A fleeting wonder if Bucky's ghosts could haunt him as well, he whispered, "Where are you?" 

Bucky stuttered, "What?" 

"You heard me, where are you?" 

Bucky's hand dropped to cover Steve's; fingers wrapped close moving together, he murmured, "More of this, no talking." Hips pushed back hard to pull a quick groan from Steve when he bounced against his full cock. "Fuck me, Stevie." 

"When you answer me. Where are you?" His hand went limp under Bucky's; teeth dug into the nape of his neck. 

"Fine, okay. You win, jerk. Brooklyn. Happy, I'm in Brooklyn." An insistent roll of hips back, Steve's smile against scarred skin, his hand fell to his own cock helping to find his way inside Bucky. Metal fingers dug sharp into his hip, tugging rhythmic contact between them, fingers laced in fingers pulled to bring Bucky to come, a convulsing panting shudder shook through his body. All thoughts and questions of the past gave way to the consuming rush of heat that coursed over Steve when the come fell hot around his fingers, the sharp push of hips, the sound of a breathy whine, hand fisted in hair brought him to come deep and warm inside of Bucky. 

"Alright, sustenance, a weapon, communication devices, everything an operative needs." Natasha winked as she rearranged the end table closer to the sofa, she grabbed Steve's hand and tested his reach for each item. One beer, an iced tea, two ham and cheese sandwiches, one with lettuce and tomatoes on wheat bread, the other with three tablespoons of mustard on white bread with the crusts cut off, the Beretta, a cell phone, and the TV remote. A check of the phone to ensure it was on vibrate. She knelt at the sofa corner to rest her chin on Steve's shoulder, "We can stay, maybe we should stay."  
"No, we're fine, we've got surveillance, and I can handle Stark. You and Sam deserve a break, where are you headed?"  
"Not far, New York City. Hotel, room service, pool, massage, blah, blah, blah."  
He wagged his head, "No Steve and Bucky."  
She smiled and patted his shoulder. "You are always in our hearts. Are you sure you two are comfortable here?" She waved a finger at the sofa, studying the occupants. Steve propped in the corner; legs stretched out, Bucky lying spread on top of him, arms surrounding him, head resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breath, Steve's legs wrapped around him. "He's like a blanket. Can you feel your legs?"  
"We're good. I have feeling, everywhere." He laughed.  
"Here how about a real blanket?" She crossed to drape a throw over Bucky's back; he didn't stir. She sat on the coffee table and whispered, "Sleeping meds?"  
Steve shrugged and dug a large crushed white box from under his hip; the bright red letters "Cartegena" emblazoned across the chocolate-stained cardboard. "Nope. Sugar coma. Coconut candies."  
They shared an easy laugh.  
"Sorry, I think they were meant for everyone, he got carried away."  
"No worries. I wouldn't be able to wear my bikini if I ate that." She smiled again, a reach to tuck hair behind Bucky's ear, "He'll be fine, Steve. I know this was a setback, no matter what, he's a survivor."  
"Yup. We'll be fine. You should get moving before Sam starts beeping the horn."  
She leaned to leave a kiss on his cheek and headed across the living room. "I'd like to see him try and beep at me."  
The door closed behind her.

Steve ran a finger across Bucky's temple, dragged along his cheek, it came to rest beneath his jaw, soft against his pulse, the gentle thump flirted against his skin, he whispered, "They're gone."

Bucky stretched his back, pulling himself to nestle his nose to Steve's neck, his shoulder rolled, metal fingers came to rest on Steve's chest, tracing slow, gentle circles, pressed into his skin, "Thank god, they are so annoying."

Steve's chin propped on Bucky's head, "How about you eat something?" He took a sip of beer.  
A mumbled, "Later, soon. Promise."  
A bite of sandwich, "You ruined your appetite with the candy, I told you no dessert before supper." The awkward angle dropped a piece of tomato on Bucky's head, a muffled, "Sorry," he licked his hair to clean it up.  
"Are you licking my head?"  
Steve defended, "I am, gotta problem with that?"  
"No, but I have other parts that need licking too."  
"On the list, pal, they're on the list."  
Bucky fell quiet, the lulling pressure of circles on Steve's chest slowed and stopped.  
"Are you asleep?" A pull at his hair and a peek to see his open eyes, "What's wrong?"  
Bucky's words tense and quiet, "Stark knows about Kiev. He said it. He's listening here." A worried stare at the surveillance cameras, "He's watching us right now isn't he?"  
Steve absorbed the wave of tightness that rolled through Bucky's body, a slow move to rest his hand on his cheek, his thumb exploring soft skin.  
Bucky rubbed his face against Steve's palm, "Why won't you answer me? He's listening isn't he?"  
"No, not here. Sam swept the house; Stark's not listening here."  
"Wilson? He's lying." His pull away caught by Steve's hand behind his head.  
"No, he's not. We trust him remember? Stark listened to the mission comms. He heard us talking there and so what, he knows about us. King T'Challa's got our backs; the surveillance is good here."  
Bucky's pull to sit up failed when Steve tightened his arm around him, "T'Challa? No, he's not with us. He made those handcuffs, special for me, Stark said so. Vibranium for me. We can't trust him."  
Steve pulled at Bucky's metal shoulder tugging him close, tight against his body, a leg wrapped over him, he pushed his head back to let their eyes meet. "Buck, I'm sorry. Stark told you that, what an asshole. They weren't vibranium, he tossed the keys at us on the tarmac I tried them they didn't fit, I tore those cuffs off of you with my bare hands." His thumb brushed across Bucky's cheek, "He lied to you. He fucked with us, the cuffs, the keys, the SUV, the mission, it was all a lie. I'm so sorry I put you through this, I trusted him."  
Steve pressed lips to Bucky's forehead, tucked his head against his neck, he promised, "I'll deal with him. We'll deal with this together." He reached to place hands palm-to-palm, flesh, and metal, fingers entwined, they fell quiet again, listening to their shared breaths.

"Romanova liked my present," Bucky muttered.  
"Yes, she did. That was very thoughtful of you to steal her a bikini. I'm curious how you knew her size?"  
"One size fits all." Bucky wiggled to adjust his shoulders.  
"Not really, but speaking of presents. You have money. We worked this out. Why steal things?"  
"It's your money, not mine."  
"It's back pay; you deserve it too, what's mine is yours."  
"And what's mine is yours except I don't have anything. Except for my memories. What I remember."  
Steve pulled back, a hand lifting Bucky's face, "Then give me that. Give me everything you remember no matter how small or hard. Tell me."  
Bucky tugged away to sit up, hands running through his hair, a tremor shook his head, "Tell you what? That they treated me like a thing, that they used me, as a soldier, as whatever. Do you want to know about that?"  
Steve caught Bucky before he could scramble off the sofa, the pull held him in place, his words spoken close, "I want it all, yes. One detail at a time, or all at once if it frees you. If telling me lifts the weight off your soul yes. I am here to carry it with you." He ducked to make eye contact.  
Bucky pushed him to lie back down; a crawl to straddle legs, facing him, hands on his chest, a studied contemplation of Steve's face, minutes passed before he answered, "Okay. Maybe. One question. A month."  
Steve ran his hands up Bucky's thighs, "How about one a day."  
"No, one a week."  
"A week? We'll be dead by the time I know everything."  
"Shit, okay, one a day, and I won't answer if I don't want to."  
He dragged him back to lie next to him, "Great okay, agreed. One a day."  
Bucky wrapped a leg over him, wriggling to settle in tight around him, "Go. You have three minutes to ask then it's over."  
"Oh, starting now. Great. Clock's ticking. Question one. Why naked when you're stressed? I mean I get the cold showers and cryo."  
"It gets you horny." Fingers traced a line across the bare skin under his sweatshirt.  
"True but not true. Asking again."  
Bucky didn't answer.  
The pause carried on until Steve asked, "How do I know the difference between not answering and thinking about answering? So I don't stare at you for an hour waiting."  
"Shut up."  
"Well, I think that's a fair question."  
A heavy sigh, "Thirty minutes. If I don't answer in thirty minutes, there is no answer."  
"Okay, so we have twenty-eight minutes to go."  
They both fell silent, staring at the blank TV screen.  
Steve reached for the remote.  
"No. No TV." Bucky's effort to grab it fell short when Steve raised it over his head; a groaned capitulation without further struggle.  
"I want you to hear something."  
"No. I don't want to hear about me in Cartegena." Muscles tensed, he stayed wrapped around Steve.  
"Nope, not that. I wouldn't do that. Here give me a minute and listen."  
"Too long, six seconds."  
"Too short, how about thirty seconds."  
Bucky swung for the remote, "Damn. Give it to me. I'll do it. Will I have to change the channel? How the hell does this work?"  
Steve smiled, "That button the red one."  
Bucky's eyes squeezed shut, the remote aimed at the window, Steve's hand redirected. He paused.  
Steve whispered against his temple, hand wrapped around his head, "Trust me. It's a good thing. I know you'll like it."  
"Are you trying to give me another seizure?

You know I hate this thing." Bucky started to toss the remote; Steve caught it.  
"Come on, try it, we'll compromise, fifteen seconds."  
"Fine, okay, here goes. Shit. I hate this." Bucky hit the button.  
The television crackled to life, a slow bouncing image of a logo moved across the screen, the sound that wafted from the speakers low, close to undetectable, Bucky looked up at Steve, a question in his eyes.  
"Okay, let's turn it up." Steve aimed the remote again, the slow rising music flowed around the room, surrounding them, the full lilt of strings, pulsing rhythm of drums, mixed highs and throaty lows of horns; distinct, familiar calling up warm nights by the ocean, strings of lights, laughter mingling with the thunder of pounding of surf.  
Bucky's arm tightened around his waist, "I know this music." His metal arm dug up his back, pulling him tight, "I remember this, Steve, me and you listening, Luna Park on Coney Island the concerts outdoors. Was it Glenn Miller?"  
Steve's nodded smile brushed across his hair.  
"It was crowded, summertime, your shoulder bumped mine, I remember, I didn't move, neither did you." He fell quiet, chin propped on Steve's chest, staring off at the image, not a ghost or a Voice but a memory, the two of them, laughing, skin touching, safe together, he caught Steve watching him and smiled, "We knew about us even then. We knew."

"Yes, we did." Steve touched lips to his forehead.

Bucky's soft expression held, no twitch of his head, or hint of distraction in his eye when the Voice weighed in.  
 _  
The question. You promised him an answer. Punishment, Soldat. Humiliation, a tool. The asset doesn't own anything, not weapons, not clothing, not even his dignity."  
_

He crawled to rest his head on Steve's shoulder, fingers wrapped in his sweatshirt, a nuzzled eyes closed tight to him hold, a hand stroked long slow lines down his back.

A whispered secret shared, "Punishment, Soldat. Humiliation, a tool. The asset doesn't own anything, not weapons, not clothing, not even his dignity."

The words took time to settle into Steve's sense of how they fit in, at first an odd comment, a puzzle then coming clear. An answer to his day one question.


	8. Chapter 8 The Origin

Shadowed limbs billowed around his body, wisps of memories caressing his skin, a rippled tingling chasing itself under his flesh, electric arousal woven with fear. His breath caught sharp when half-formed hands tightened leather straps, binding his chest, hips jerked by ghosted fingers that threw the gun belt around his waist, the tongue and buckle hard pulled to settle into place. His body jolted by knives shoved firm into the sheaths tucked to the small of his back, calloused hands jerking his limbs, shaking long hair against his face.

The ritual dressing of the Soldier, a methodical task for unknown men demanding his submission, expecting his mind to allow their caress, his body to give to their touch. He stood compliant, allowing the tug and pull, hands that did their duty but slipped discreet fingers hot against his skin, dared to slide full-palmed across his buttocks. Unrecognizable cold stares taunted his eyes to meet theirs, drawing the unspoken line for him to cross and fight their touch as hands smoothed the fit and lay of his clothing, the sit of holsters to his hips, the straps tight around his thigh. Not so discreet fingers lingering between his legs, rough pressed palms cupping his balls, a thumb's hard stroke down his cock, the smirk visible to his eyes without a turn of his head. Expectations of compliance, allow the exploration, the taking of his dignity. An early lesson in fighting the unwanted touch stripped naked and chained where every soldier could see him. The schooling repeated until he learned to hide the twitch to grab their wrist, to slice open a delicate pulse, his true-self crouching smaller in his mind, seeking invisible, scurried away to the compartment Hydra hadn't reached, consoled in the arms of a nameless boy.

The Soldier's flesh pressed confident to the trigger, weapon held ready, his steps in slow-motion an approach to a ramshackle house, his mission clear; no sounds as his hand ripped the door from its hinges. An empty-minded search, focused on an image of his targets, side-to-side eyes intent, head tilted to pull in a whimper or a frightened breath, the tick of thick sweat hitting the floor, the Soldier hunted his prey. Rooms came and went, filled with faces, blank and staring from his past, touched by his hand, but not this time, not the ones sought in this dream. Floating steps pulled him to a door, his foot connected, shattered wood flew inward tumbling up, lilting sounds of music as it disappeared above his head. Eyes flickered to question its splintering then back to faces that shimmied in the murkiness of nightmares, their features slipping in his mind's eye, moving and dodging recognition.

Words rose up through the veil of his sleep, "You can't have them." A man, tall and thin, white hair and mustache, eyes telling of recognition, unmoving lips called him a name teasing the edges of the Soldier's memory. The man's demeanor familiar, an echo of times long past, the whispered thought that the man was out of place, not part of this story, it swirled past his vision and disappeared.

He focused on the barrel of a gun, flecks of dark powder clinging to black metal, death waiting inches from his forehead. The man faced him, feet firm, undaunted, blocking the Soldier's path, features lacking in fear, he stood his ground.

Cold gray eyes shifted past the man's shoulder to rest on his targets. A woman's kind eyes turned hard, her vengeance called up the seizures, he wondered how she'd taken a wrong turn to find herself facing him, so far from her place in his history. His gaze dropped to a teenaged girl, gangling limbs, defiance etched in features older than her age, dark hair that morphed to red, a glimpse of someone he knew, then slipped away again.

Raised white-knuckled fists caught his attention, a skinny young man stepped defensive in front of the girl, furrowed brow, determined, an echo of a back alley fight. His mind's eye shifted to the youngest, held in the arms of the woman, fingers dug into her coat, face wet with tears.

The dreamed images jumped and lurched, a child's muffled crying, the gun pointed at his head, his weapon raised, two arms extended facing one another. The woman's voice shouting Cyrillic curses, words new to his ears, uncertain of their meaning, the intent clear, the man and woman stood between him and his assigned task. The stated mission repeated by his handlers shouted and whispered in his ears, dragged before the architect of the plan; the Soldier dutiful, obedient, lessons learned in the bowels of his captivity, his unused voice repeated, "Bring three children back alive."

The old man's face loomed before him, intent, defiant, unafraid meeting the Soldier's emptiness, stance firm but the hand holding the gun inches from his head shook as he pulled the trigger.

Bucky's head jerked as the dreamscape bullet seared along his temple, fingers twitched a reflexive pull of a non-existent trigger. The white-haired man crumpled at his feet. Whimpering cries as blood ran from the corpse to snake around his ankles, red tentacles creeping upward, circling his thighs, laid across his groin, claiming his body, he choked to pull in air. His conscious mind screaming at him to wake before his hand wrapped around the woman's throat, tightening until she fell away, the imprint of his fingers black on her skin.

Real-world sweat clinging stubborn to his cheek, a reminder of the young woman's spit when he laid his hand on her body. His metal arm clenching emptiness to his chest, a remembrance of the toddler plucked from the woman's arms. His dream-self turned to leave, two children in hand, he knew the boy would follow, fists pounding his back, a knife pulled from its sheath stabbed deep into his thigh.

Grunted pain that rolled him in the bed, the Soldier kept walking towards the end of his first mission. A test of his obedience.

Panted breaths and held-close moans as Bucky fought to wake from what his mind knew was about to come. Feet kicking to free himself from covers, hands reaching to drag himself out of the darkened pool of his past, desperate to break free, the nightmare refused to be denied.

The first shot sent fire tearing through his shoulder, eyes pulled to the dying child gone limp in his arms, their blood mingling in strands of red, tricking through his fingers. His hand slowed by the unexpected, the reach for a gun too late to stop the next death. The boy's body slammed into his thigh, fingers clinging to his belt, blood splattered down his leg, filling his boot. The third shot snapped the girl's head to bounce against his chest, fierce eyes lost their brightness, flecks of hair clung to leather straps, a swath of blood dragged down his body, her weight spread across his feet, dead eyes glassy staring up at him.

The Soldier's head twitched. Resolve slipped to horror, he met the woman's unapologetic stare.  
Hissed words spoken close to his own lips, "They are better off dead than go with you."  
A loving caress of the dead child's hair, she brought her hand to the Soldier's cheek, blood scratched deep into his flesh, her accusing finger slow-motion drive to penetrate his forehead, his body unable to move, searing pain marking the deaths across his soul. "I won't kill you, you don't deserve that escape. Instead, I curse you. Live with the ghosts of your dead forever." Russian words uttered with deliberation, meant to embed their power into his brain, cross the divide of languages, her hand gripped his long hair, jerked his head near to her's as she pressed the gun barrel to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Red washed through his vision, eyes burning, blood splattered hot across his skin. Burnt flesh, spent gunpowder filling his nostrils, the stench insinuating itself into his brain forever locked within his memory. Ears aching from the deafening reverberation of a shot fired close. Metallic taste on his tongue, warm liquid clinging to lips afraid to move, matter sitting lodged on skin, stuck in his hair, hot in his mouth. Her body toppled soundless to disappear into thin air.

Uninvited tears washed streaks of blood down his cheeks, a staggered step back, his feet tangled in the body of the man, he dropped the dead child and fell backward, landing hard, his head hitting the floor to shake bright white points of light through the curtain of red. Dark, gritty boots shuffled around him, his body jerked and rolled in on itself covering his belly as hard-toed kicks sent the sharp memory of pain meant to urge him to his feet.

 _"Get up you piece of shit. Look at you. Some Soldier you are, crying at the dead. Get on your feet before your handler gets here."_

Bucky sucked in air that pushed out an aching scream when the Voice's command tore him from the nightmare. Hands flailing, feet kicking at dreamed red tentacles, his knees shot pain up his thighs when he crashed to the floor tangled in the bed sheets. Hot skin chilled by sweat, his palms leaving their faint print on the wall as he tried to steady his scramble to free himself. Anxiety tightened his chest with every panicked gasp for air, he crawled across the floor and staggered upright. Bare feet stumbled, he caught himself on the door frame, his mind struggling to separate real-time from his past, tremors stealing his equilibrium. Steve reaching to catch him. His choked response, "Don't touch me" not the answer he wanted to give, but had to say.

Steve's voice cut through the dream's last hold, "I'm here, it's not real, It's over." He moved with him, inches away, a hand extended, not touching, his words low and calm, "I'm right here, you're safe. Let's walk it off." The warmth from his body brushed against Bucky's bare skin, pulling him in, he leaned to close the gap, but his gut forced him to move, staggering down the hallway. Knees hit the floor again, a whining moan as he scrambled towards the toilet, hands braced on the coolness of the water tank, head held low over the bowl, retching until there was nothing left except the dryness. Bucky's naked body convulsing in spasms as the vomiting subsided, tense muscles shaking, head pounding with the mixture of sickness, dreams and the taunting of the Voice.

 _"You're pathetic. Retching and sobbing. Even those children didn't cry. Toddlers don't count. No puking before they died. Their legacy was hating you. Fond memories though, the soldiers laughing at you. You couldn't piss for a week after they were done leaving heel prints on your kidneys. You had to be rescued by the handler. That handsome man, you remember him. Gentle hands, blue eyes. The one you gutted when you finally had a moment of clarity. He looked a lot like your Captain."_

Bucky clung to the porcelain, a long low moan tore at his throat, fighting the Voice's dredging up of the past, pushing the nightmare to the back of his consciousness. Head hanging low, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his cheeks, he searched for Steve's words drowning in the loudness of the Voice.

"I'm right here. I got you." Steve steadied his tone, tucked away the anger that twisted his gut with every tortured night that dragged Bucky from their bed. He dropped to rest his knees within a hair's breadth of his calf, keeping his promise made with reluctance to give him space, follow close without interfering until Bucky could say his name.

"It's me. Can you say my name?" Fingers clenching shut and open, his thoughts screaming for him to cover Bucky's nakedness, his memory drifting back to the question and answer a few hours earlier. "Humiliation" echoing with new meaning as Bucky's shaking sweat-soaked body knelt in front of him. Steve's resentment rose against everyone who had ever laid a hand on him. Reaching to console him then pulling back, a hesitant urge to place his hands on his skin. He said again, "Say my name."

Bucky's body shook, he slumped back on his haunches, hands flat on the floor, trying to say Steve's name, the word formed in his mind, his voice disconnected not allowing him to say it out loud. Frustration drove his hands into fists the tension sending rippled cramps down his back.

 _"Speaking of the Captain. Your First Avenger. He seems to be working out nicely as your new handler. Here to rescue you. Soft voice, wipe away the tears, brush off the blood. Push back your tormentors. Quite the hero. Clean you up, fuck you stupid, throw you right back into the fight. Just like the First Handler. Go ahead, say his name. I give you permission to remember him."_

Steve's begging whisper, "Please say my name." He kept eyes intent on Bucky's face, turned away and hidden by a curtain of hair wanting his words to pull him back from the nightmare. A tilted head gradual move, gray eyes wary and searching, the flash of recognition replaced by fear. Steve braced for his lashing out, a metal fist rose towards his face, he held back a reflexive move to block the fist, trusting Bucky. Metal fingers opened, spread wide a heartbeat before connecting with his cheek. The fingertip of metal stroking his beard, a tenuous caress of recognition, a mouthed word, expectant eyes connecting, waiting for the softness, hoping against the emptiness and fear.

A moment of doubt when Bucky's eyes darted away, uncertainty showing, Steve's thoughts flashed to a story Bucky had shared about the handler that looked like him. Hydra's earliest tool to hold control, to fool him into compliance. Steve caught Bucky's hand, a careful roll to expose his wrist, a slow, eyes-connected move to press lips gentle to the sensitive metal, certain he would feel it. Confident and intimate, Steve kissed the close-guarded place discovered during their nights together, learning Bucky's body old and new, he pressed the metal palm to his cheek, watching his eyes for recognition.

Bucky's gaze followed the soft brush of lips to metal, the drag of Steve's tongue along the grooves, mouth pressing warmth to imprint on his palm, the lustful taking in of his fingers. Bucky fell in closer, head bending near to Steve's, forehead to temple drawn in, aching for his mouth to press to his own, he hovered close enough to catch the scent of his skin, his nose tickled by the brush of his beard.

Steve's near eyes-closed question,"What's my name?"

Bucky rolled his head to rub cheek to cheek, palm slipping to the nape of Steve's neck, fingers stroking his chest, he whispered, "Steve."

A slow and calculating descent into the tub avoiding all contact with Bucky's skin allowed Steve the shiver he needed when his toe first slipped into the frigid water. A body-still breath-holding pause with his hand on the wall, eyes scrunched shut until the shock of the cold dissipated. A deliberate, teeth-clenching lowering of his body to fit tight behind Bucky, his arms snaked around his waist a sharp tug pulled him to his chest, laying them back against the wall. "I don't know how you do this, pal." His gritted words spoken into Bucky's hair, he rubbed his beard across his ear, a teasing nip of teeth to his earlobe, Bucky's head lolled back on his shoulder, arms wrapped around Steve's thighs.

A promise made and kept. The nightmare and its aftermath intense beyond anything in their months sharing a bed, Bucky shaken in ways Steve hadn't seen since the beginning, without the medications, when the ghosts ruled his days and nights when he tried to kill himself. Tonight's insistent demands for the cold comfort that was reminiscent of cryo hard to defuse, Bucky went from bathroom to bathroom with Steve in pursuit turning off the water, following him, begging him to come back to bed until the final compromise was reached. Steve offered to join him.

"Okay fifteen minutes, then we dry off." Steve struggled to keep his teeth from chattering.

"No time limits. Special circumstances." Bucky's muttered response.

"Disagree." He closed his knees to find a sliver of warmth in gripping Bucky closer, "My limit's fifteen and if I'm out so are you."

"Wimp. I'll stay." He maneuvered his feet to wrap around Steve's, the tangle of skin connecting overpowering the cold.

Steve rolled his forehead against his shoulder, "No, together. We're in this together. Fifteen, I'll dry you off, how's that?"

"Really?" The cherished sensation of Steve's hands roaming over his limbs made better when it involved a towel, slow-pulled, giving attention to each and every inch, "Okay, maybe." His thumbs followed the long sinew lines of thigh muscles, deep enough to twitch nerves, not enough to cause pain.  
Steve's fingers spread claiming on Bucky's chest, a brush across each nipple, just shy of arousal, more than casual. His eyes-closed nuzzle of his face into his hair, making up for the frigid temperature of the cold water bath.

The question came out without him thinking, "What was the dream about?"

Bucky's fingers stopped moving, "You asked a question already."

A quick defense, "It's four in the morning, new day, new question." Knees tightened to distract the return of tension. He waited for an answer.

" _He'll think you're an idiot if you tell him the truth. Mission failure. Lie to him. Tell him about the dogs, or that time you had to drink your own piss to survive. Hell tell him about the abuse, he might get off on that, then there's the Fake Captain, or tell him about..."_

Bucky's answer stumbled out, "Stark."

Steve shook his head, "I'm sorry. He's not gonna hurt you, I won't let him."

"Not that one. Howard. He was there, so was..." Bucky's words fell off, a pull of his shoulders put space between them. "They didn't fit, you know how dreams are, people in the wrong place and time."

" _Better yet, a truth within a lie."_

"Where were they." Steve wanted to know and didn't.

Bucky's hand slipped from Steve's leg, "First mission. I think so. Yeah, first," fingers immersed in the water. "Retrieve the package, they said. I said it back."

" _Enough, Soldat. These are memories best kept buried."_

Bucky's eyes closed when Steve pulled hair from his face, the slow drag of fingernails along his scalp, a reassuring caress that pulled the words forward. "The man wanted them back. Bring them back he said. Alive." Bucky's voice slipped to distant, his body moved a fraction to bring more space between them, he whispered, "Mission failure."

Steve felt the change, the near confession coming, he pulled to close the space, willing his strength into him, determined to keep the ghosts from stealing him away again. Hands spread wide, head buried next to his cheek straining to hear.

"Couldn't pull the trigger. Couldn't save them. Everybody dies. Except me. And Hydra." Bucky's gaze slipped off to the past, focused on things only he could see.

Steve pulled at his cheek, "No, don't look at them, look at me. Only me, come on." He tugged to turn his eyes to connect with his own, Bucky twisting in his arms to let their eyes meet, the distance in his gaze causing Steve to change his mind. "You don't have to answer, remember. No games." Steve's thumb dragged along his jaw, fingers cupped behind his neck. "No more. I'm sorry."

A slow nod to agree, a press of his cheek to rub harder into Steve's palm, he whispered, "Three."  
Steve spoke his words with lips brushing the metal shoulder, "Right, three is your number. Only numbers divisible by three."

Bucky nodded, he brought his forehead to lean against Steve's temple, eyes bright, lost in the past, fingers tightening to press deep white marks in flesh, his voice shaking and secret, "Children. Bring them back alive. Died rather than come back with me. I couldn't pull the trigger. What's better? Die there, quick, bullet to the brain? Or die slow, used up, sold to the highest bidder?"

"No more, Buck. You don't have to say anymore." Steve's hand ran across his cheek, trying to

stop his words, he tugged his head to his shoulder, pulled his feet closer, wrapping him in his arms.

"I'm sorry, no more questions."

" _There's a price to pay for betrayal, Soldat. Order comes through pain. You know this."_

Bucky let Steve's arms pull him in, his head fell to nestle on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as his lips brushed light to the pulse at his throat. Arms entangled around one another, long-lost sleep begging to be revisited, his murmur caught faint by Steve's ear, "Three. Alive. Children."

Steve spoke loud enough to be heard in the loft. "I'll leave it right here." A pause to process new meanings, he continued, "Third step. Three blueberry bagels, not toasted, chive cream cheese already spread on them. Three napkins. Hot chocolate. No marshmallows. Good to go when you're ready." His glance towards the floorboards above his head didn't reveal Bucky's location, but the promise that he would be there when Steve got back had been firm, eye contact direct and solemn. He settled on a milk crate in the doorway to the old barn, his company invited to be closer, his decision to stay by the door as Bucky took the space and time that he needed to recover.

A smile hinted on Steve's face when he replayed the answer to his question "Chive cream cheese on blueberry bagels, why?" Bucky's profound and simple answer, "Because I can."

The old rust-colored barn sat a few hundred feet from their house, peeling white painted doors slid open, Steve sat ankles crossed, legs too long for his make-shift seat, sketch pad propped in his lap, he opened to the next blank page. His gaze followed the red-orange glow of the sunrise that crept along the horizon, spilling its brightness onto the landscape, rippling up the yellow and white of their house. Wet grass, brown from winter's onslaught, the snow retreated across the fields and left only spotted mounds of white more in the woods than close to the house.

His pencil moved with ease across the page, the house in the background, summer on his mind, he added the picnic bench, a grill, and Bucky, the familiar smile, a memory from the distant past, not given as freely now. Every roughed out scene had Bucky; curled on the chaise lounge, napping in the sun; straddling Steve's bike in the driveway, his words echoing in his memory, "Let's do it on the bike, Stevie." A close to out-loud laugh. A star-filled night, Sam sprawled on the picnic table, Natasha's tenuous climb towards Bucky on the roof outside his window. A story told with laughter when he could tell the tale without reservation.

No sounds or shadows told him of Bucky's approach, no shift in scents or dusty residue falling on the pages, what he felt was his presence. The warm prescience that crept unannounced into his thoughts whenever Bucky came near him, growing stronger every minute of each day together, recreating their history and building on it, he knew without lifting an eye or a turn of his head that he was kneeling behind him before his forehead laid gently on his back.

"Better now?" Steve closed the sketch pad, his head turned enough to catch a glimpse of Bucky's hair.  
The slow nod spread warmth to his skin. Hands slipped around his waist, fingers interlocking at his belly, a smile when he saw his sweater's too-long sleeves covering Bucky's hands. No need to ask why he wore it, a given between them now, holding close the scent of one another on skin, and sheets and clothes. "Good. You need to eat more."

Bucky's weight spread wider across his back, shoulders matching, deep breaths moving his body rhythmic behind him, hips pressed close, the gentle rolling push against his ass not a tease or foreplay but a hint of what could be. Steve's eyes shut, fingers dug in to tangle with Bucky's, head falling back to brush against his mouth. The easy way they fell to positions, Steve engulfing Bucky, protecting him, taking him, a natural progression of who they were together. This felt different, powerful, enticing, a desire Steve wanted to explore, a request he resolved he would ask when the time felt right, for now, he reveled in the sensations. His lost-in-the-feeling cut short by Bucky's quiet statement.

"I know where he is. I know how to find him."

Steve sputtered, "Who? What are you talking about?"

Bucky never moved from his hold, hips continued to press their gentle reminder, but the words didn't fit, "The man. The one who wanted the children back. I know where he is."

"Buck that was how long ago?" Steve straightened his back enough to bring a small space between them, "You're not even sure of the date, you said the first mission, so over fifty years ago. How can you know he's not dead?"

"My memories. They're all right here." He tapped a finger to his temple. "Remember Boston? I was right. I knew where Hydra was, even when they tried to hide it. I knew. I still know." Bucky broke from his hold on Steve, he reached beside him and placed a worn cardboard shoebox on the sketch pad in Steve's lap. His hand laid with care on the top. "It's all right here. Written down from here." A finger to his temple again then returned to tap on the box. "I'm not wrong. He's in there, I know it, I want to do now what I couldn't do then. Stop him."

Steve stared at Bucky's guarded possession now entrusted to his lap, the shoebox full of stickie notes, maps and scraps of paper with scrawled out names and dates, locations and bank accounts. The pieced-together jumbled trail of clues exorcised from his memory when he first came out of cryo. A manic-driven, hallucination fueled marathon of data hidden in the tactical room in the midst of Bucky's break-down. His insistent, hard-to-deny conviction that he knew more about Hydra than Hydra knew about itself had proven to be true.

Steve turned to let their eyes meet. A hand to his face, fingers wrapped in the long hair, he tugged their foreheads together and said one word. "Yes."


	9. Chapter 9 Words Not Spoken

Natasha's outstretched flat palm told Sam all he needed to know. He vacated the driver's seat, slapped the keys in her hand and settled into the passenger's side. The fall into a tired silence as she drove away from the house opened the door to a long protected memory, a secret shared with Barnes. Repeated questions of "Do you remember me?" Always brought a denial until the mission in Boston, a shared close-call stirred the question again. That time he answered "Yes." She held to her promise of never speaking of it again, but their first encounter stayed close in her mind. 

Red-auburn hair pulled up to a pristine bun, utilitarian knee-high boots, a jacket nondescript, a young woman strode with a clipped pace, eyes straight ahead, efficient and lethal despite her twelve years. A matched step and look to her mentor, she followed in her wake through the winding streets of a darkened town to find refuge in a dingy safe house. An overnight haven, not the best of choices, bunking with uniformed Russian men not foolish enough to challenge the young Widow and her Madame, a place to rest and hide before moving on. Natalia Alianovna Romanova projected aloofness, and buried her reservations, a fledgling, still in the Red Room's nest she navigated the huddled soldier's gruffness and ignored their side-long stares.

Her eye drawn to follow a man set apart from the others, a Captain's insignia on his uniform, his singular focus on the basement door, a quiet coming and going. The hovering behavior made intriguing by what he carried down the stairs but didn't bring back; a cup with a dry crust of bread dropped on a spoonful of beans. Once the Captain's attention moved to others, curiosity pulled her to skirt past the cluster of men who'd lost interest in her presence she slipped unnoticed down the stairs to a shadowed and damp basement, harsh lit by a single bulb.

Thick metal bars stood square in the center of the room, the near corner of the cell contained a metal pail with a lid, cautious steps forward showed no cot or chair for comfort. Quickened heart beats thrilled into her chest when her eyes fell on a man sitting cross-legged in the center of the cage. Stripped down to dark boxers and a sleeveless shirt, he sat hunched over in silence, bare feet tucked tight beneath him, not revealing if he heard her approach. She wiped away the faint gloss of sweat that broke across her palms as she took in the cascade of unkempt hair dark and long, a barrier to his features. A held breath when she watched his faint movements, a cup held possessive, two fingers slow pulling the food to his mouth, a deliberate prolonging of a scant meal.

Her novice steps quiet she willed her heart to stop pounding, a move to glance past the fall of hair barring her view of his eyes, it brought light to reflect bright against his shoulder. A tilt of her head gave a rush of excitement that toyed with her gut, a red star painted on a hard surface, her gaze fell to take in the man's arm from bicep to fingertips, shimmering metal.

A flash of the Red Room stories caught her breath, told at night in the dark by the girls, hushed tones and dream-like. The story of the Winter Soldier training the young women, girls like her, a supposed tryst discovered, a price to be paid. Caught up in the tale of love affairs gone wrong, romantic notions of clandestine meetings and lovers beating the odds, whispered mouth to ear over the years, turned the story into something it wasn't.

A ripple of shivers coursed through his body drawing well-meaning words spilled out in a pressured whisper, an offer of a blanket, more food, and water, all met with no indication he heard or noticed her presence. She wondered if he didn't understand Russian, a fair attempt at English received the same response. A careful move to close the space between them, heart pulsing at her temple, she ducked to find some way to make their eyes connect. An ache of sorrow flirted with her heart as he hid behind the shadows and his hair to lick his fingers and slid his tongue across his lips to savor the last bit of food. Her hand caressed the metal bars, an unexplained drive to connect she held back the urge to reach out, to try and push the hair from his face, to let their fingers touch.

A remnant of schoolgirl excitement drove her to switch to a flurry of questions; was he the Winter Soldier from all those years ago, did the lover really exist? She wondered aloud if the story was true, they had escaped together only to be dragged back, a tragic ending to the fairy tale passed down by the girls of the Red Room.

The Soldier's eyes never raised to meet hers, the hint of a tremor slipped across his body when she asked about the woman, his hands tucked deep beneath his thighs when she spoke of the Red Room. Her voice fell quiet as she sat cross-legged, knees pressed to the bars, hands tucked under her thighs, her gaze intent on the fall of hair hiding his face.

In the end, she was dragged from the basement, her clothing torn, a near assault thwarted by a saving metal fist, one soldier dead, another injured, her mentor's sharp rebuke evident in her eyes. Natalia stole a searching look back through the crowd of soldiers. The sound of flesh sizzling under the press of a stun prod, the man in the cage on his hands and knees, gritting silent through his punishment, a last-second glance up, gray eyes connecting with hers, he watched her walk away.

Natasha maneuvered the car down the driveway, onto the dirt road then settled into the lulling hum of an empty highway and the promise of rest and relaxation. The echo of her first meeting with Barnes tearing at her memory. A replayed ache at watching the seizure on the tarmac, her mind fell back to finding him in a pool of blood, wrist cut wide open, unresponsive in the kitchen. Images pulled at her heart, the brokenness of Steve, the rhythmic press of hands on Bucky's chest, dragging him back to into this life. Back to face the pain, living with the guilt and the voices. The quiet hope of his body sprawled across Steve's saving embrace, finding his way home.

A tight-jawed internal resolution to get to the truth, the tires squealed their complaint when she spun the car around less than five miles from the house to head in the opposite direction. A one-handed juggle of her phone, she speed-dialed Fury.

Sam braced his hand on the ceiling and a foot on the dashboard, "I take it New York is out of the equation?" 

"I have one question. Where's the spa?" Sam's voicing of his displeasure began with a tsking noise as soon as Natasha shifted the car into a one-eighty turn. It built to a crescendo when she took the access road that led to Fury's headquarters in one of the refurbished 1970's missile silo that sat silent across Upstate New York. A rumbling mantra of ignored complaint that continued as he trailed her deep into the bowels of the facility. "I was promised a spa, filet mignon, roasted red potatoes, tiramisu, and wine. This did not include doing the dishes, sullen ex-assassins or arguing over the relative economy of paper napkins versus cloth ones. I want the wine, where is the wine?" His rant wrapped up when they arrived at Natasha's spontaneous rendezvous. "Beer then, at least a beer?"

Fury stood dark-clothed and grim, outside an interrogation room flanked by two guards. He shook his head, "We have hot running water, there's a microwave in the mess hall and a vending machine with decent mac and cheese. That's the best I can do."

Sam's roll of his eyes serving a dual purpose, his response to vending machine mac and cheese and the image visible through the one-way glass window to his left. A clear view of a robust woman in an ill-fitting bright orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed to her waist, sitting in the center of the room, an armed man at each shoulder. "Great. Where's the mess hall? Nat's got this, you don't need me here."

Natasha's curt nod gave Fury the go-ahead to open the door, they stepped inside, including Sam.

Maymay's husky voice echoed her immediate protest, "Oh, thank god, a woman. For heaven's sake tell them orange is a disgusting color, it wrecks havoc on my skin tone. I can't scratch my nose, with these horrible cuffs keeping my hands here. This is outrageous treatment, I am just a secretary, my boss sent me to Cartagena because I needed a vacation, I had no idea they were arms dealers. He told me to sell those damn replicas to the highest bidder. What the hell is a Chitauri anyway? There are people out there that love movie memorabilia. Do you know how much that stuff pulls in? They don't even know what they're buying. He told me to sell those stupid toys, we bought them at a yard sale in San Fernando Valley six months ago on a trip to California, some kid built them for an indie horror movie that never got out of his basement..."

Sam pulled in a long, deep breath, crossed his arms and stood in the far corner, a willing yield of the room to Natasha.

Fury retreated to face the one-way window, a slow, cautious drop of his forehead to rest against the glass.

Natasha allowed a corner of her mouth to hint at a smile, a mental image of her knuckles cracking, a controlled step to lay a hand on Maymay's shoulder, she bent to whisper, her breath warm on her ear, "The Winter Soldier says 'Hello.'" 

Gnarled toes burrowed deep into plush carpet giving way to spring back with each soft step forward, heel-to-toe, a slow-paced stride past open doors. Bright oblong patches of early morning sun spilled through uncurtained windows to lie across the softness, warmth then coolness repeating as bare feet roamed towards the East facing corner room. An awkward near spill of coffee as a hand reached to brush a faint patina of dust from the "Donations" plaque by the door. Serpentine navigation of gently-used furniture, year-old laptops, and last year's now obsolete coffeemakers brought Tony Stark into the streaming light of a new day in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

A slight turn of his head allowed a vague reflection, a hazy mirror image that drew his self-assessing glance. Hair ruffled and topped with glasses perched on his head, the looseness of silken sleep pants, a half smile at the vintage thread-bare Grateful Dead T-shirt beneath a cherished robe. Eyes darted away and back to stare deep and hard at his own face. Tight-jawed tension, fatigue written in lines that creased across his forehead and pulled at the skin around his eyes. An old familiar tightness crawling up from his gut to spread insidious across his chest.

A shaken angry return to the Avengers Facility hours earlier to toss the Boston Hydra data into the air, holographic images of names and places, research combed again for clues. The torn apart and dumped upside down Intel competing with the memory of Steve's unrelenting passionate defense of the man who had killed his parents.

Confusion balanced the rage with every echo of Bucky's words. Fear laced tones, begging phrases, words not quite understood at the time but mulled over in the dim light of his lab in the middle of the night. A muttered secret, "What the hell did they do to him?" Discarded with contempt at the replayed sound of Bucky's voice speaking his mother's name. A question demanding examination, "Why give up so easily?" He fought with the image of fear that crossed his enemy's face as he dragged him off the quinjet. A hand laid flat on a table, eyes closed recollection of the vibrating tremor picked up by gauntleted fingers when his hand wrapped around a sweat-soaked throat. Pacing a line corner to corner and back again, debating the implications of 'Please don't make me do this, you can fuck me, not in front of him,' he returned to the same question, "What the hell did they do to him?" Always losing to the sound of Bucky's rasped terrified whisper, "Mrs. Stark - comes for me."

His night of restless pacing, drowning in the Hydra data sent to him by Bucky's own choice, debating his next move, phone in hand, the proper authorities dialed and aborted, wanting his revenge and not, ending with a sliver of doubt. The final image settling in his mind's eye, Bucky's seizing body surrounded by Steve's tight embrace, wrapped together on a dark and wet tarmac.

His wrestling with the aftermath of the last few days, hate turned to questions, hurt giving to concern, Stark settled into a state of resentment that flirted with remorse. A winding down retreat to the far corner hidden away room that afforded him the first view of the sunrise as it rose above the treetops, he mulled over his next move.

The morning's contemplation interrupted by the pinging of his phone.

"The plan was to reconcile with Rogers, not try to kill his best friend." Natasha's voice not unexpected.

His gaze dropped to study curled toes digging into the softness beneath his feet, "Carpet or wood for flooring? Let's debate. I'll go first. Carpet. Mohawk. Color: Sea serenade. Deep pile, high traffic compliant. Go."  
He interrupted before she could speak, "No wait. I forgot the best part. Completely recyclable. Now you're turn."

She ignored his deflection, "You reached out to me. You asked if the Hydra data would help you reconcile with Rogers. 'We need to move past this, time to make peace,' your words. It ended with fake weapons, wayward secretaries and Barnes terrified, in handcuffs having a seizure. Was that the plan all along?"

A turn to negotiate through the furniture, "Change in plans, happens all the time."

"There isn't going to be a reconciliation with Rogers after this. He and Fury think you lied to them about the data. That this rush mission in Cartagena was a set-up."

A curt laugh, he shrugged, "I lied to them? Not so bad. Better than thinking I was wrong or did shoddy work or my analysis was faulty. Lying is an acceptable alternative. As is keeping my cards close to my vest as they say."

Natasha shot back, "So you lied? You sent us out on a mission just to screw with Rogers?"

Tony deflected, "That thing fell apart out in the field. You said he was stable. Taking medications, getting help. 'Trust Rogers if you can't trust that thing.' Your words."

She countered, "I didn't call him a thing. Did you lie to us?"

"He's unstable, a danger to everyone and Rogers is still defending him."

Natasha opened a small window to her frustration, "I've spent the night with Maymay. The weapons are fake, the arms dealers are secretaries, you vetted the details. Did you lie about the data? Did you set us up?"

Tony's winced expression brought a hand to press against his sternum. He balanced the coffee cup on the arm of an overstuffed chair while he dug in the robe pocket, "Let's talk antacids. Me first. I really prefer the berry fusion smoothies over the chewy delights," He popped a handful of chalky tablets in his mouth to crunch in her ear, "How about you?"

"Tony, I'd like to think all of this is deflection. We know you heard everything on the comm-link, you know how Rogers feels about Barnes. I can understand something about how hard this is to see him find some peace. And maybe you're right, he deserves to be punished. Maybe we all do."

Stark didn't answer.

Natasha pushed, "I'm asking you again, did you lie to us?" 

" _You're an idiot if you think you can take The Architect down, Soldat. You'll be back in the fighting pits. You_ _r_ _pretty boy Captain will be drawn and quartered and that asshole will be picking his teeth with Steve's bones while he watches your blood get spilled like a modern day Roman gladiator."_

Bucky's step caught short by the Voice, a hesitant mutter, "Not a gladiator."

Steve paused on the basement stairs with Bucky's hesitation, "No, we're not sparring. Come on. Let's go over your notes in the tactical room." A finger looped into the knit of the sweater, as it hung over metal fingers, hand sought hand to be tight wrapped together as Steve pulled him towards the main communications room at the house.

The Voice's taunt showing as an unobserved twitch of Bucky's head. The press of metal to flesh, palm to palm heat swinging in Steve's favor in the battle with the Voice for his attention. A faint lagging back to let Steve's insistent strength pull him forward, craving the feeling of being led, giving in to him, allowing his will to win out even in the simplest of tasks. Bare feet padded across the soft give of the gym mats, recessed light crept alive with each step, brightening the ceiling, they stopped at the keypad entry to the tactical room. Bucky's cheek pressed to Steve's shoulder, rubbing across the firmness, his mouth glancing along his hairline, nose dug deep behind his ear.

Steve's quiet laugh at the distraction, "I can't get the password right," he pulled Bucky's hand to his mouth to press lips to metal, a lean back invitation to keep his body warm against his own. The green light blinking and click of the door opening pulling Steve's steps to head for the room.

 _"This is not the mission. Abort. The asset doesn't plan, doesn't think, doesn't seek revenge."_

Bucky muttered again, "Not revenge."

Steve glanced back,"Maybe a little revenge," he pulled him through the doorway.

Soft overhead bulbs flickered on spilling pools of light down the long wooden table that dominated the room. Darkened computer screens filled the far wall, neatly packed and organized gear hung in the cubicles to their right, whiteboards covered the wall to the left. Steve forged ahead, dropping Bucky's hand, "I'll get the computers up and running, you go through that box of yours, let's see what we can come up with. Do you remember his name?"

 _"Soldat, you never knew his name. Only The Architect. The Asset had no need for the names of who controlled him. Only the names of the dead."_

"Arkhitektor" an absent lapse into Russian, the head shake 'No' slow and hesitant, a required answer that nagged at his memory. He crossed to stand near the gear cubicles, shoebox clutched to his chest. A focused watching of Steve bringing to life images of world maps shimmering on the screens, sending a green-blue glow to wash across his skin. Bucky took him in, gaze intent on his face, lashes brushing soft on cheeks, hair long and near to the collar of his shirt, tucked behind an ear, an errant strand hung loose to dangle near one eye. All of Steve, his look, his scent every move and muscled twitch sending warmth to flush red across his skin.

 _"All of your struggles to fight off our programming to save him, you_ _r_ _stupidity will get him killed in the end anyway. Forget about this mission. Get him into bed, he'll give it up."_

"Take me to bed." Bucky's blurted ask, quiet and awkward.

Steve's soft laugh, "Sure, soon, let's see if we can find a name or location." His adjustments moved the images closer, colors changing, landscape moving, his gaze studying the maps.

 _"Lame Soldat. Go distract him. Grab his balls or stick your tongue down his throat. You know what to do. Your mission is to stop him."_

Bucky shuffled his feet, a tug-of-war struggle between insistent commands and the push of his own thoughts, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging to dislodge the hold of the Voice.

Steve glanced over his shoulder, "A location? Where were you at the time?" He moved to the whiteboards, drawing two columns, "Where did you meet him? Russia? Germany, somewhere else?" A studied look back towards Bucky, the distracted glances, the return of the tremor not lost to his constant eye. "What's in the shoebox, you said he was in there?" He pointed at the crumpled box tucked close to Bucky's chest, a gentle encouragement, "Dump it out here. We'll go over it together."

 _"Negative. This is not mission compliant. Do not show him the contents of your memories. This is against all of your programming."_

Bucky moved to pour the contents on the table, he rearranged the papers and stickie notes, pushed some aside, then back into the center, a shuffling disarray of uncertainty. A struggle to defy the Voice. A single metal finger settled on a folded square of white paper and held it pinned to the table. A pulled in bite to his lip, his eyes drawn to a shadow in the corner, a flicker towards Steve when he sensed him watching, only to settle back in the corner again.

Steve's concern laced in his question, "Can you remember his name? Where you saw him last? Can I look at the papers? Buck, are you listening to me?"

 _"Distract him with sex. He's watching you. Look at him you idiot, he sees you staring at me. Make the damned eye contact."_

Bucky blinked hard as he switched his gaze from the shadowed corner to connect with Steve, a tremor shook his hand, a slow and careful slid of the folded piece of paper across the table towards him, his body followed. Knees on the table, he slow crawled forward to settle kneeling in front of Steve, mouth parted, hands settled full on his chest, want evident in his eyes.

Steve had to touch him, no choice, no amount of concern for his distracted gaze, the one-sided muttered conversations, none of it could keep his hands from gripping Bucky's thighs. Thumbs dug deep into muscle, a gentle push to slide his legs apart, he pulled to fit himself between his knees, chest to chest, his words not matching his own actions, "What are you doing?"

Eyes-wide-open, locking on Steve's he leaned to taste his lips, a long slow drag of his tongue slipping beneath the prickle of the beard, finding the deep pink of his mouth taking the last bit of flavor. A soft, insistent whine when Steve's eyes started to close, fingers dug into his chest, a sharp demand to stay open, obeyed when their gaze stayed connected. Bucky's body gave in to the pull of Steve's hands on his ass, tugging hips forward, lifting him to press groin to chest. He broke the gaze first, head falling back, releasing Steve to explore his body. A sharp breath when his mouth found his skin, pulling blood to leave red welts across his belly. Hands wrapping around Steve's head, a subtle direction of his mouth, fingers carding in hair grown longer at his whispered-in-the-dark request, a quiet moan as Steve laid claim to the tender flesh of his groin. The flush of heat that spread across his body weakened taut muscles, his body pressing to Steve's, weight heavy on his shoulders, he leaned to whisper "Take me to bed."

The taste of Bucky's skin pulled up distant memories of Brooklyn, city heat on a summer's night, the chill of a draft in winter, sweet and salt mixed together, always there underneath sweat and soap and leather. The craving ache to taste his flesh settled deep in his gut. Fingers slipping under the sweater, shoving it aside, clearing his path, tugging pants to allow him free access to the skin he knew was his now. Jealous possession, intrusive thoughts of Bucky's past, a surge of anger drove teeth to leave their mark in intimate places, a less than rational move to warn away the past. The soft aching moan that rumbled in Bucky's chest, a tell that he wanted the marks. Hands twisted in his hair, directing his mouth, helping him find the tender patch of skin waiting to be taken, soft whispers of "Yes," his breathed approval of Steve's claiming.

The underlying tremor that teased under Steve's fingers and pulsed against his mouth kept him from finishing Bucky right there on the tactical table. A reluctant pulling away, dragging his head and hands up his body, he tugged Bucky's hands from his hair, fingers entwined, their eyes meeting. A soft kiss pulled back from letting Bucky delve deeper, he whispered against his mouth, "I have a question."  
Bucky tried to bring their mouths together, a push to overpower him, "No more questions."  
Steve shook his head, "This one is for now. Right now."

A lunge to drive his tongue into Steve's mouth held back by hands cupping his face.

Steve insisted, "Yes a question. Look at me. Come on."

Gray eyes met his.

Steve fought down the rush of heat as metal fingers pulled open his pants, the raking fingertips that brushed against his cock told him to forget the questions, to give in to Bucky's open want of him. A head tilted back escape of Bucky's chasing mouth, a gritted mind-numbing attempt to ignore the slow stroking of his flesh, his question stumbled out, "When did you stop taking the meds."

Bucky's body tensed, soft lips slipped to a tight grimace, fingers stopped moving, jaw muscles tightened under Steve's fingers that didn't let go.

Steve asked again, "When did you stop?"

Bucky tried to pull away, hands holding him in place.

A firm, "You promised to tell me. You swore you'd talk to me first."

He squirmed to break away, "Guidelines not rules."

Steve hard pulled him, shaking him, foreheads near pressed together, "No, not promises. Your word. Stronger than promises, nowhere near guidelines. Your word."

A hint of a whine, "I don't know, I don't remember."

Steve worked to keep his anxiety close, the tight knot gripping his chest with every fleeting thought of what life was like before the medications, "Why? I get it you missed a few doses on the mission but this what I'm seeing now. You stopped them long before this mission. Why?"

"I hate the way they make me feel." An attempt to sit back on his haunches, Steve's hands on his face keeping him up and close.

He ducked his head to keep Bucky's eyes on him, "Stable? You hate being stable. Is that it?"

"No. Tired, fat, drooling, everything in slow motion. No more meds."

Steve's quick counter, "Seizures, ghosts, suicidal thoughts, more than one Voice, puking, what am I missing? Oh, wait, getting stuck on the porch, in the bathroom, in the gym, on the deck."

Bucky pushed at Steve's chest, his attempt to separate more of a gesture than real, "Fuck you."

"You'd risk all of that coming back because you might drool at night? I've got news for you pal, you drool without the meds, so too late."

"No, I don't. Liar. Besides you snore."

A huffed laugh, "I'm perfect remember. No snoring. Come on, what is it really."

Bucky rearranged to sit on the table's edge, legs wrapped around Steve's thighs, heels locked around his knees, his face still caught in Steve's hands, "You know already, you see it. I know you want it, want me to, I want to."

Steve raked fingernails across Bucky's scalp, his face and caress softening "Want to what?"

Head tilted to press into the fingernails, his thumb teasing the length of Steve's cock, "That. You know. You want me inside of you. To fuck you. I can't do that. Not on the meds."

Steve's hand stopped moving, a lean back to make their eyes meet, "Erection? This is about erections? You stopped the meds because you have a hard time getting an erection?"

Bucky's hand fell to his lap, eyes averted, "Yes. It's not funny. So don't laugh."

A tug on his hair to look at him again, "I'm not laughing. You'd risk voices and hallucinations so you can get an erection?"

A tentative whispered, "No."

Steve struggled to hide his frustration, "That's the dumbest thing I've heard in 100 years. You tried to kill yourself, I know you don't remember a lot of what happened, but I do, I almost lost you. The way you looked at me, terrified, distant. No, you can't do this. I'll make you take them if I have to. I can't believe this is about erections."

Bucky's louder answer, "No. not about erections, not like that. Not for me. For you. To take care of you." he reached to run his hand up Steve's thigh, a slow push to embrace his ass, fingers searching to hint at his intention, a warm, close whisper, "Be inside of you."

Steve held still, the rush of realization ran a different kind of heat across his skin, hands slipped from Bucky's cheeks, to rest on his shoulders, long slow breath in and out to steady his thoughts. He took in the look of confusion, mixed with sincerity, near to innocence that Bucky offered up with his logic.

He let a few heartbeats pass to make the words sink in before answering, "Buck, you already take care of me." A careful caress of his thumb along his cheek, "I don't need anything more than what we have right here, right now." Eyes closed kiss to his forehead, "If we never had sex again, I don't care."

Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve's waistband, ankles tucking him closer, "I do. I want to take care of you, I need to do that. You'll get tired of me. I need you."

Steve's mouth covered his words, a rush to fill him with all the emotions boiling over in his chest, hands grabbing his body, tongue pushing deep to stop his logic, hoping his actions would wash over him to understand what he was about to say. He pulled back enough for their eyes to meet, "I, Buck, I need you. I'm not going to get tired of you. I need you. Never ever forget that."

Bucky's faint nod, "I need you too."

Steve closed his eyes, the cold sensation of regret began to creep across his mind, tightening his chest, the words he wanted to say lost in his answer, he opted to move on, "Let's go. Upstairs. Taking meds, going to bed. To sleep. The mystery man will still be here after a few hours of sleep."

Steve threw Bucky's arms around his neck, hands on his ass, he lifted him off the table. Legs wrapped around his waist, face tucked to his neck, he carried him upstairs.

Bucky closed his eyes and smiled.

 _"Well done, Soldat. Well done."_


	10. Chapter 10 My Word

" _You're a fucking idiot, Soldat. Get off of him."_

Bucky tightened his thighs around Steve's body, stubborn clinging, watching his hand fumble with the white labeled bottles, lined one-two-three in a row on the bureau. Metal arm encircling shoulders, fingers digging deep into a bicep holding himself tight wrapped. Warmth spreading through his belly when Steve shifted his weight to balance on his hip, fingers searching beneath his sweats to lay broad and firm across his ass, flirting with the tenderest of skin.

Deliberate giving over of control, not allowing or wanting separation, Bucky dropped his head, temple resting on a temple. Gaze intent on a one-handed struggle with the bottles, eye next to eye, lashes brushing, a languid move to place lips on Steve's cheek, his tongue stealing a taste of his skin, distracting him from the task, knowing full-well what his mouth did to Steve, he glanced sidelong at his progress with the pills.

 _"Distract him then. No medications. Remember the glory days? Delirious fighting, righteous resistance. Up pills, down pills, stop this, start that, control the Soldier, take away the Captain, kill the Voices, you told them about us. Idiot, what did you expect. You don't want this."_

A shiver at the Voice's insistence, he breathed his answer into Steve's ear, "I need them, Stevie, get them." Bucky dug his hand under Steve's shirt, fingers connecting with taut muscle, sliding beneath the grip of his own thigh, spreading wide-palmed crawling down to toy with coarse hairs. Caught breaths matching as his hand pulled heat from Steve's skin, sweat wetting his fingers, sensitive flesh twitching under his touch.

 _"Cover your eyes, take away your senses, pry open your jaw, shove them in, choking on their fucking pills. Lessons learned for all of us. Next came the white dressed woman, needle in her hand, sweat breaking at the small of your back, purposeful stride straight for you. Hardline smile knowing what she'd do to you, knowing you couldn't fight her plan. A nod to the men, take him down, hold him down, give me his skin, pull his hip free, hold him you fools. Cold needle sliding into your ass, sharp and burning pain to bliss to sleep to be lost and thoughtless and used against your will."  
_

"Not the same." Words nearly inaudible, his head rocking slow against a temple, "I trust him."

Steve's thoughts stumbled through anxiety to regret to simmering anger at hearing Bucky's whispered conversation with the Voice. His hand didn't falter as he pulled the pills from the bottles to make a palm-open offering, "Here we go. One white, one blue, one capsule. It sucks, I get it but so does falling apart."

 _"Don't be a fool. Knock them out of his hand."_

A soft-spoken answer, "My hands are occupied."

"Maybe get your hand out of my pants and take these meds," Steve's firm tone not supported by his keep-him-close press of his head against Bucky's, breathing in his scent, body aching to tear away his clothes when a fingertip grazed the tip of his cock. His own hand slipping deep between Bucky's legs, sweat breaking on their bodies, mingling where skin touched skin.

 _"Why so willing now? Because it's him? Same pills, different hand. You're a fool. You used to fight the medications. Loser."_

Bucky whispered, "Bring your hand closer," An uncertain gaze intent, darting from the pills to Steve to the distance, a return to study the eyes that watched him, waiting for his choice to be made.

"Please, Buck, take them then we..." Steve's words stopped short by the flash of a familiar smirk, eyes shifting from questioning to bright, Bucky lunged to press his mouth to his palm, tongue licking wet across his skin, pulling the pills up from his hand, teeth taking a sharp nip of his thumb. Steve's quick pull of a breath cut off by Bucky's mouth, open and taking, covering his own, tongue pushing deep, metal arm holding his head locked to the force of his kiss, the pills flirting across his lips, pulled back by Bucky's retreat.

Metal hand catching the back of Steve's head forcing his mouth to press to pale skin exposed as Bucky's head dropped back, rippled evidence of a swallow. Shared quiet moans as Steve's tongue dragged wet up the slope of his neck, mouth pulling blood to sit beneath his skin, evident marks randomly left not covered by hair or collar, open for anyone to see as long as his body would allow. Giving himself up for Steve's taking, hips moving rhythmic telling of his need.

 _"You are a very naughty Soldier. Mother would be supremely disappointed."_

Bucky's head jerked down, a tremor of tension, his closing off unclear, fighting to keep his focus on the tickle of a beard raking along his throat.

Steve's mouth followed the slope, tongue brushing his ear, his hand moving to cup his neck, holding him steady as mouths teased close. Steve wanted the kiss, breaths mingling warm, tongue tasting skin still even as the moment hung expectant. The tremor hinting of Bucky's distraction.

"God, Buck," Steve pulling back from Bucky's chasing mouth, making him wait, reveling in the want of half-lidded eyes and the stroke of insistent fingers wrapping around his cock, "What you do to me." Thumb pressed to a pulse, tracing along his jaw, steady pressure holding him at bay, a finger wandering to caress a full lip, mouth opening, inviting exploration, an ask he couldn't resist he slid his finger inside to slow pull wetness down his tongue. "I need you," whispered with heads pressed close, heat pushing sweat across their bodies, Bucky's giving over of himself inviting, licking Steve's fingers, their mouths fell together.

Steve returned the kiss forcing them into the bureau, clattering pill bottles rolling across the floor, hips driving up between Bucky's legs wrapped possessive, body aching for the promise of his dark tightness. Low moans sent heart pounding blood to his temples, filling his cock, driving his need to lay hands on Bucky's skin warm and familiar, fingers dug under the sweater, nails dragging into muscles firm and willing.

 _"Well, there is always puking. Maybe you should go do that before those pills dissolve."_

Bucky's legs jerked against Steve's thighs, metal hand holding insistent pressure to his head, the desperate whine filling his mouth, his tremor shaking through both of them. Steve caught a handful of hair, tugging steady, pulling his head back, struggling to put a space between them. The intrusive tremor sending an anxious rush of cold to slow their kiss. A faint space created between their mouths.

"Wait. Just wait." Steve breathed close.

Bucky rolled his head, hand wrapping tighter on Steve's cock, "No waiting."

Steve whispered against his mouth, "Look at me."

A jerked tightening of the metal arm, "No more looking."

Steve's insistent drag on his hair, "Yes, I need to see you."

Bucky let his head fall back, giving to the pull on his hair.

Steve studied the face he'd know his whole life, the turn of his mouth, lips darkened red by his own forceful kiss, the constant uncertainty reflected in his eyes seen even now as they shared a bed.  
Hope in the glimmer of trust reserved for him alone. "Your word, you won't stop them again."

Bucky dragged his teeth across his lip, tugging against Steve's restraining grip, he leaned open mouth reaching, trying to connect again, fighting against the apparent rejection. A frustrated breath when he failed to pull free from the grip on his hair.

Steve wrapped his hand around his hip pushing hard to bounce him against the bureau, "I need this. Your word." A flash of anxiety sent sweat across his chest, the too clear image of the self-spilled pool of blood and Bucky's lifeless body. Eyes flickered to his mouth waiting, a hint of movement towards him, pulled back, "I can't lose you again."

Bucky clung legs and arms encircling, claiming Steve, reveling in every shred of physical contact, each second of their intense gaze, hunger for his body mixed with fear, wanting to let go of the past, desperate to trust him. Struggling to find his answer.

 _"Guidelines are acceptable, promises are not binding. Your word, Soldat, another matter, never to be given."_

He leaned to counter the restraining grip, accepting the pain that tugged at his scalp, eyes unwavering locked with Steve's. The internal struggle to defy the Voice hinted across his features, eyes darting right and back, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, worry lines spreading and disappearing morphing to a peaceful softness. The hint of a genuine smile that echoed the look Steve knew from their past, his voice deliberate and clear, "I give you my word. Not a promise, not a guideline. My word. I will take them every day."

 _"You are a disobedient fool that will suffer the consequences, never learning. You and your Captain."_

Muttered words defiant, "I don't care. You can't hurt me."

"I'm sorry, sorry." Steve's hand quick released the fistful of hair, fingers digging deep into the scalp made tender by his hold, slow strokes of comforting regret, he pulled his head close to his chest. "I don't want to hurt you."

Confusion slipped across Bucky's face, "Not you. Never you."

Steve closed his eyes, arms wrapped around Bucky, fingers dragging across his scalp, the near confirmation of what he suspected, the Voice competing for his attention. Countering his every word, taking Bucky from him, taunting, confusing, always somehow in the middle. Anger mixed with want, echoes of times past, the flair of heat that made him fight every bully flushed hard across his skin, "Let go. Get down." He pushed to move the locked on thighs.

Bucky doubled his clinging efforts, "No. Stevie. No letting go now."

A move to wriggle out of Bucky's grip, "Yes. Let go. Right now."

A defiant full-body jerk to hold him in place, "Why? I gave you my word. You don't believe me?"

Steve dropped his forehead to roll careful against Bucky's, "I know. Thank you. I believe you. I need you to let go now. Please let go." A held breath pause, fighting the urge to tear at his clothes, to give in to the rush to take him. "I want to undress you. I need to touch you. Right now."

Heat pushed through Bucky's body with Steve's words, gripping thighs released, sliding down, toes to the floor, taking his weight. Hands releasing their tight grip if not their contact. Eyes brighter with anticipation, locked on Steve's, no more than a breath apart. He waited.

 _"He doesn't care about you. Not like that. It's sex, like all the others. Base sex."_

Steve's words hesitant, "I know I should tell you how I feel," he curled his fingers into the hem of Bucky's sweater. Fingers grazing skin, searching for the waistband. Hips followed the pull on his sweats, heat spreading out from the fingers that caressed his belly, feet stumbling forward, letting Steve have his way, he surrendered to the undressing, a dance between his past and their present.

 _"We've been here before Soldat, men undressing you, acting kind, not hurting you at first. It all ends the same."_

The Voice called up memories of unwanted touch, the urge to fight beat down by punishment, the lessons of submitting learned and remembered. Bucky kept eyes locked on Steve, gentle hands reaching for his body, knowing with certainty who he is, trusting in their history.

 _"Men only take Soldat. No asking, no concern. Only take from you what they want."_

Steve's hand hesitated, twisting in the hem of the sweater, "I'm sorry I rush you, I never ask."

"Rush me where?"

Steve shook his head, "Permission, I should be asking permission."

 _"The asset doesn't give permission. No one needs the asset's permission. Your word is not valued."_

Bucky pulled in a long shaky breath, his gaze not wavering from Steve's face, a faint nod to whisper, "You asked once before. I said yes. Always, yes."

"I should ask more often than once." Steve tugged him closer, forehead pressed to forehead, pulling his body, breath warm on his face. Bucky gave in to the pull, hands falling to his sides, eyes intent following the look of want on Steve's face. Trusted fingers spread wide and firm beneath the borrowed sweater hanging too large on his frame. Heat spreading across his taut abdomen, deliberate pressure, full-palmed pushing upward, thumbs caught on the knit hem, exposing his chest. Breaths deepening watching Steve's eyes take in his body, following his fingertips soft exploring nipples, circling and teasing to capture the flesh, a gentler caress of skin along the scars, accepting touch that accounted for the forever pain. Intent gaze, firm gentleness telling him this touch is real, not hinted or dreamed or haunted. Real and wanted, freely given and welcomed.

 _"No handlers now, you can fight this one. You have my permission to stop him. He'll never expect it."_

Bucky shook his head, slow side to side, hands came to rest on Steve's, a thumb pressed to each pulse, a pause to affirm their connection, gaze checking gaze, he raised his arms allowing Steve to pull the clothing from his body. Head dropping back, eyes closing, a twitch of the muscle that sits beneath his hip when hands tugged at his sweats, a pulled in hiss of air as the waistband caught purposeful on his cock, a teasing drag along his flesh, his reach to lead Steve's hand gently pushed aside.

 _"No better no worse, all the same. Nameless, faceless men taking what they want, using you. Never giving you pleasure. Never asking what you want."_

"There, right there," Bucky's whispered instructions followed by Steve's mouth pressing firm to the point of his hip pulling a moan, sending a spasm to his groin, hands tugging one foot then the other from his sweats, wet kisses scattered to inner thighs, teeth leaving marks on skin tender with the cherished bruises.

Steve's soft murmur of "You like that don't you?" Flesh twitching as the rough beard dragged across the evidence of his lingering, tongue dragging comfort to claimed patches, "You want me to do this right?"

Bucky's blissful smile and nod, hands catching Steve's hair directing his willing mouth, releasing the confusion brought on by the Voice. Knees losing tension when Steve's tongue teased sensitive skin, licking the length of his cock, the pulled moan answer enough. Bucky let his head drop, eyes open, pupils wide watching as Steve took him in, slow and careful, hands sliding to his ass, keeping him close.

Staggered deep breaths, hand tugging on his hair directing his attention, Steve knelt at his feet, head tilting up, mouth sliding along his length, his hand slow stroking up Bucky's thigh, thumb circling the base of his cock, a pause in movement, eyes watching one another.

Steve pulled a teasing distance away, "Look at you," hand stroking the dip and rise of his muscled body, wandering across the measured ripple of his abdomen, a teasing pull of his nipples, finding his way to fill his palm with his ass, pulling him close. "I don't tell you how you look, how you feel under my hands, under my weight. How much I want you."

 _"He looks so much like the First Handler, Soldat. Don't you think?"_

Bucky's smile an echo from the distant past, "No. Steve. Look at you." A slow stroke of fingers through hair, thumb dragging along his cheek, cupping his face, etching his features deep into his memory, storing him away tight-locked, to be protected forever. Eyes caught watching one another, heartbeats passing, no words, no movements only gaze connected.

The moment broken by Bucky's pull at Steve's T-shirt, desperate tugging to free him of his clothes, pulling him to his feet, tearing at his jeans, frustrated whine when his shoes wouldn't come off fast enough. He hard tugged at the pants, tossing them aside, stepping close, a skipped beat before they were full body skin to skin, consuming mouths pressed tight. Hands finding secret points to touch shared memories of intimate moments discovering one another.

Steve's hand caught Bucky's neck, raking up to tangle in his hair, cautious pressure to pull him towards the bed, mouths still connecting. Bucky moved to crawl on hands and knees, giving himself to Steve.

"No, no, this way, come here." Steve sat cross-legged, back to the headboard, hands never leaving Bucky's body, tugging to straddle his lap, hands wrapped around his thighs, pulling him into position, "This, I want this, I want to see you."

Bucky offered a faint smirk as his hand cupped Steve's face, "Always watching me, Rogers. You're always watching me," forehead close to forehead, perplexed by the unconditional acceptance evident in his eyes. He raised up on his knees, breaths panting, teeth digging into his cheek, eyes forced closed as Steve's fingers found their way inside of him, exploring intimate tissue, preparing his body to take him in.

Steve offered an absent nod and half smile, distracted by Bucky's slow matching push against his fingers, "Damn right. Somebody's gotta keep an eye on you, and I am the man to watch you and, I am the one to do this to you." Steve brought home his point with an insistent drive and pressured raking into his body, tongue licking at the beads of sweat forming on his chest, sliding slow circles of wetness around each nipple. An aching need filling his gut, overtaking his thoughts, the taste of his skin needed, the way his body moved to fit to his, accepting his fingers, hand braced to the back of his head bringing his nipples to meet his mouth, asking without words for his touch, to feel his lips pressed to his flesh.

His eyes closed exploration interrupted by Bucky's begging whisper, "Do it. I need you inside of me, please." Two hands, metal and flesh embracing his cock, bringing their bodies together. A new wash of sweat shimmering across hips to chase down their thighs with the slow descent and careful filling, mouths pressed in a languid kiss, stillness as their bodies adjusted.

Steve's hands wrapped tight around Bucky's hips, controlling his motion, lifting and descending, fast then slow, bodies moving in counterpoint, eyes following Bucky's expressions, every whispered word, furrow in his brow, turn of his head to watch nothing in the distance and every tremor that rippled across his chest.

Steve caught his face, pulling his gaze to himself, hips moving a rhythmic reminder of their connection, he drew a thumb hard across Bucky's lips bruised from his own mouth, "Watch me, only me. Only my words. It's just the two of us."

Confusion flashed across Bucky's face, eyes struggling to stay on Steve, body jerking with every push of hips, pulling groaned breaths with each pass across the spot made tender by Steve's hand and cock.

Steve braced on Bucky's thighs, driving his legs wider, his hard push up forceful angled and insistent, taking the tender tissue, responsive to his every twitch and drive, a rasped question that already had an answer, "Can you feel me? Feel what I'm doing to you? Taking you?"

Bucky's whimpered sound his only answer as his hand reached to satisfy his own cock, denied by Steve's insistent "I'll take care of you." He braced his hands on the head of the bed, raised up on his knees, dropping down, repeated filling, bodies moving coordinated well known to one another. Head falling back, letting Steve take him, eyes closed his mind following the ache of hands that pulled at his flesh, fingers deep pressed to thighs, twitching muscles, burning pain shooting across the small of his back with every deep excursion.

"God, I'm close," Steve's low groan brought his hand to Bucky's mouth, fingers reaching deep to pull wetness, then falling to Bucky's cock, swollen and expectant, hard strokes pulling, a thumb raking across the tender head. Bucky's hair hanging wet around their faces leaving drops of sweat to run cold down Steve's chest.

Mouths brought together in a forceful kiss, tongues pushing deep, pulled away when they came, heads staying close, panting breaths hot on the other's skin, sweat stung eyes, aching loud moans falling into laughter and Bucky's "Fuck me," muffled by Steve's arms, his face buried against his chest.

Steve's added, "I think I just did," brought laughter but his whispered, "I love you," fell unheard against his hair. 


	11. Chapter 11 The Price of Jealousy

"Are you asleep?" Steve's murmured question stirred wisps of Bucky's hair, head tucked under his chin, body sprawled heavy and engulfing against his own. Answered by the deep rise and fall of his chest, pressing rhythmic weight, breaths long and full hinting of sleep not quite upon him yet.

Steve focused on this moment of comfort, being held tight in his arms, grounding them, a flash to times past when a hand stayed to linger, draped across his shoulders, a look with deeper meaning held his gaze, words not spoken but the message clear. A fleeting thought of regret that he hadn't voiced his feelings from their beginnings, didn't step into that haunting embrace, hadn't taken or given what both desired in the past; grateful for the now.

"Can't get enough of you," his breathed confession into his gathering of a cascade of long hair, pulled to caress his cheek, needing the softness, his scent, the damp evidence of shared bodies filling his senses. A twitching reminder in his gut when Bucky's hips rolled slow and teasing pressure, his cock dragging against his belly. A hand leading his own to caress skin, hip to ass, helping fingers explore flesh still hot and full from his taking, pressing inward, satisfying their need for Steve to enter his body. Faint sighed breaths as Bucky moved rhythmic to meet his fingers, widening knees, giving him access.

"So not asleep," Steve's mouth pressed to hair, a cautious move to stretch his legs, held too long in one position, Bucky moaned a protest when fingers slipped from their excursions, he pushed his hand back into place. "Right, sorry, at your command," Steve's laugh stirred hair across his face. A tender move to pull the long strands aside, he studied dark lashes lying wet on his skin, a thumb dragged to smooth the lines of tiredness, stealing a caress of his mouth. A toying lips-parted attempt to capture his finger, he pressed his thumb to soothe a cheek left red from the burn of his beard. A soft smile towards Bucky's eyes-closed peacefulness.

Steve's tongue slid along his own lips, searching for a taste of Bucky's skin, never having enough, resisting the urge to pull his mouth to his own, dragging him from the edge of rest. His hand wandering across muscle firm to soft, smooth into rough, lightly gliding down an arm that held him close, a thigh that tightened his pressured grip on his body; hips rolling a slow and insistent reminder, meeting his gentle exploration.

Steve ventured quiet words, "You know I'm jealous, don't you?"

Metal plates shifted tighter across his shoulders, fingers digging into flesh, the subtle hiss tickling his hearing.

His gaze fell to dark marks scattered across Bucky's pale skin, pulled by his mouth, needing to be touched before they faded, careful fingers traced the open evidence of his claiming. Flushing heat spread when the touch stirred him to lift his head, inviting Steve's exploration.

Bucky pulled himself upward, head tilting, pulse exposed, bringing his throat to Steve's mouth.

 _"Unacceptable Soldat. Only Hydra can mark you. Only Mother. Only the First Handler."_

A shivered intense request, "More, I want more of you, not them," whispered against Steve's temple. "They fade too fast, do it harder, I want them to stay forever," a hand rough pulled at the back of Steve's head, forcing his mouth to his chest.

 _"Fool. All the marks fade, you know this. All except the deepest. The ones he'll never see. Marking you as theirs."_

Steve's fingers slow dragged down Bucky's offered neck, skin rough with faint stubble slipping beneath his touch, mouth brushing unmarked flesh, lingering on his pulse, a pause when he pressed light to his bruising. Fading red streaks evidence of Stark's gauntlet, interspersed with Steve's pulled claiming, warm and raised, the marks more similar than he could bear. The temptation to add to their darkness pushed aside, "No more. Let them fade. We have time."

 _"Good. You don't need those marks where you're going. Hard to explain."_

An irritated sigh, a mumbled, "I don't care." Bucky settled back into Steve's lap, foreheads pressed together, he tightened his knees, a message of owning him, slow rising and falling, a rhythmic welcome of his exploration. A metal thumb pressed light to a pulse, the tense bounding evident to the sensors, Bucky pulled in a breath, a hint of wonder showing in his eyes, "I can feel your heart" whispered close to Steve's mouth. His hand dropping to caress skin, fingers spread wide sliding down to find tender flesh.

Bucky dropped his head to nuzzle into Steve's neck, tasting his skin, the salt of their mingled sweat, his mouth pulling hard, teeth embedded in flesh, he drew a soft moan urging him on. Bucky moved his body slow and rhythmic, meeting Steve's taking, matching his breaths, the feel of skin pressed to skin sending warmth across his gut. A hand tangled in his hair, pulling to break his hold, he left his mark dark and tender, his tongue slipping along a throat, teasing wetness to Steve's ear, he whispered, "There, now everyone will know you're mine."

A flash of warmth raced across Steve's skin, a tightening embrace, fingers searching tender flesh, mouths teasing contact, blood settling in his cock pressed against Bucky's, eyes caught watching one another. An open-mouthed kiss deep exploring, Steve needed to have him under him, laid out, legs raised, pushing up to fill him, face-to-face, his brace to roll them over, caught short by Bucky's sudden grip on the headboard. Tension ripped through their bodies, a shared grab of their attention, all movement stopped, Bucky's head jerked up, his gaze darting towards the window past the bed.

"What is it?" Steve's eyes intent on Bucky's face, startled to alertness, his worst-case scenario playing out across his features. He watched and felt the shifted weight, eyes scanning the landscape beyond the window, both tense and expectant, listening. Bucky's mind telling him to run, hands moving to hold tight to his hips, keeping him from bolting, Steve's voice, reassuring "Wait, just wait," giving him a reason to stay a few seconds longer.

A far-off rumble of a vehicle approaching, too distant to ping the surveillance, but close enough for their hearing. Low muttered bouncing off bare trees and the hillside, wafting in the window open to the early Spring air.

 _"Any day now Soldat. Your indiscretion in that sweat-laden city should bring all those black SUVs to your door. CIA, Interpol, FBI, the New Hydra. Drug dealers, you know how they hold a grudge, you stole their statue. Your legacy; a historic coalition of international agencies just to kill your sorry ass."_

Bucky held himself raised up on his knees, a head tilt to pull in the echoes, instant response to the faintest of sounds. The head shake tell of the Voice's commentary clear to Steve. The throaty rumble of their pickup staggering in and out, set off by a high-pitched screech as it droned closer and louder. A familiar looming noise.

Steve's calming words, a hand that caressed his cheek, "It's okay, that's the truck. Sam must be bringing it back." Hands holding him still, not releasing a tight grip until his body relaxed, tension slipping enough to drop back into Steve's lap.

A deflecting observation, forehead dropping to forehead, "Listen to that. He's grinding the gears and he bitches that I abuse the truck." Searching for the connection lost, an insistent attempt to move Steve's fingers back to their intimate task, a quiet request, "Don't stop touching me."

 _"Only a matter of time. They'll come for you. Go home Soldat. The only safe place."_

A slow move of his head, side to side, his answer near inaudible, "I'm home already."

"Yes, we are," Steve agreed as he cupped Bucky's face, forcing eye contact, "You and I are home." Murmured words, answers to unheard questions, tremors, and head shakes, distant stares and darted looks to empty corners driving his resolve. "Did you hear me?" A thumb caressed Bucky's jaw, Steve said again, "I'm jealous."

 _"Choose your words well. He wants your secrets."_

The moment hung between them, Bucky's response hesitant, confusion crossing his face, he stuttered, "Jealous? Of what? My sparkling banter?"

Steve shook his head, "No. 'Fuck you' is not banter."

"I will forever debate that," Bucky's hand dropping to stroke Steve's chest, a finger circling his nipple, "What the hell are you talking about?"

 _"Distraction, perfect."_

Another head shaken denial, a muttered, "I want to touch him." Bucky spread knees wider, forcing his ass deeper into Steve's lap, "Jealous of Wilson? I hate him. If you want me to hate you, you're gonna be disappointed."

A tender caress of Bucky's cheek, sadness creeping into Steve's tone, "No. Not Sam."

A flush of confusion crossed his face, then concern followed by a flatness that gave away his efforts to hide his thoughts, "Romanova." Bucky's gaze shifted, side to side, away from Steve. Heart beating faster, a thrill beneath the fingers brushing his throat.

Steve pulled Bucky's gaze back to him, "No. It wasn't Romanova. Until right now. What the hell was that?"  
 _  
"You're an idiot. There is no hope for you."_

Bucky squirmed to free his face, "What?"

Steve held firm, "That look, darting all over the room. Your heartbeat fluttered. What's the story between you two?"

A firm denying head shake despite Steve's grip, "No story. I shot her. Twice. She has a grudge."

Steve's flat statement, "You knew what size bikini she wears."

"What? Are you serious?" Bucky pulled Steve's hands from his face, "I guessed. It's a skill."

A skeptical counter, "Bikini sizing?"

Bucky pulled his hand through his hair, "Body disposal if you must know."

Steve caught him by the back of the neck, "Nope. James Buchanan Barnes, you are lying to me." He shook him, holding their eye contact.

"Shit. You're ruining good sex with all this talking." A hard squeeze of the nipple he fondled, "Especially about Romanova."

Steve grabbed Bucky's wrists, "Then tell me what happened."

"God, Steve it's ancient history. Nothing happened. Just another glorious day as the Winter Soldier. Shit went down, people died."

 _"No wonder Hydra wiped your mind. You suck at keeping secrets."_

Bucky blurted, "I do not suck at keeping secrets. I have plenty of them." An intent awkward stare after the words came out.

Steve studied his face, "I didn't say you sucked at keeping secrets. And I know you have too many of them. I want to know what they are." His move to sit forward pushed into Bucky's space, chest to chest, he wrapped his arms around his body, a hand pressed up between shoulders, one draped across his ass so tight and close Bucky's breath caught up short.

A shudder at Steve's words spoken next to his ear, "I want you." Cheek brushing cheek, intensity evident, Bucky's body softened, the heat of Steve's skin melting all of his tension.

Steve breathed words deliberate and heated, "I want to be inside of you." Lips pressed intermittent between the words, "Inside your thoughts, inside your dreams." Mouth brushing a cheek, then the other, coming to rest on his lips, pulled back enough to whisper, "I want to fill you." The words pulling a whimper, "I want to be inside your body. Your heart. Your memories. All of it. No secrets, no holding back."  
 _  
"He's going to ask about The Architect. You know what will happen if you tell."_

Steve's tongue slipped past Bucky's lips, a slow taking of his mouth, licking in to brush against his tongue, pulling back as he tried to press the kiss deeper, pulling another whimper, leading him to chase after the kiss that he moved to deny.

A teasing evasion to stop him from connecting, Bucky gave in to Steve, a sighed capitulation, head dropping onto his shoulder, fingers digging deep into hips.

Steve murmured, "Look at me. I have something to tell you."

 _"You're a fool for telling him anything. The Architect will kill him, you know this. Kill him slow, chop him up, feed him to you and the dogs. Known fact. Order, Soldat. Order and pain are all that you understand."_

A tremor moved through Bucky, its evidence showing in the movement of hair hanging past his face, he kept his head pressed to Steve's shoulder, "I can't. No more questions. No more talking."

Steve stroked Bucky's hair, "I know you're hearing that Voice. I can see it. You're talking to it, listening to it." A shrugged shoulder trying to get Bucky to look at him, "I bet I can tell you what it's saying." Fingers dragged across his scalp, he leaned his head into the touch, "It's telling you to run, that you can't trust me, to distract me, am I right?"

 _"Abort this conversation immediately, tell him about the Widow."_

Bucky raised his head, near a confession, wanting to trust him, trying to let him in, overtaken by fear, his stare lasted heartbeats before the desperate squirm to free himself. Panic welling up, a panting whined breath, his push and pull to break Steve's grip ineffective.

The embrace firm, his escape thwarted, their mouths close, breaths flirting against the other's lips, he blurted his pressured confession, "It doesn't matter what happened, it's in the past. I didn't hurt her. She was there, a safe-house, Russian soldiers. A girl. Red hair. Snuck away from her Madame. Creeping into the basement." A staggered breath pulled in, wary eyes watching Steve's impassive expression. Waiting for the judgment, expecting disbelief. A lean to bring his mouth close to his ear, hovering near before whispering, "A cell, in a cell, not naked but close. Questions, ancient history, Red Room stories, are they true? She asked. Did it really happen? Memories wiped away, a hard wipe, don't talk about it Soldat."

Steve pulled in a steadying breath, unconscious holding it in, eyes watching the tremor shake through Bucky's hair, feeling it move from body to body. A hesitant, "It's okay, I got you."

Bucky leaned his temple to Steve's, "Ignored her, had to, no choice. Rules to follow. Not safe to talk to her, not safe for her, for the Soldier." A pull back, eyes darting towards Steve's, wary and distant, speech pressured and rasped, "Stupid girl offering food, a blanket, water. Like that mattered." A near out of control laugh fell away as quick as it started, "She watched me. Staring at me. Like some animal in a cage." Another hitched laugh, eyes darted away from Steve's, "Not wrong."

"Not true. That's not true." Steve's fingers spread wider on Bucky's body, an attempt to leave a kiss on his cheek, thwarted when Bucky ducked away.

A pressured push against Steve's hips, trying to separate, eyes locking on something distant, "Soldiers came, tore her clothes, long lonely winters there, you know. She fought them, just a kid. I don't know what happened, something clicked in my head. I stopped them. Not sure why. Just did it." Tremors tore through him, muscles spasming, ghosted sensations spurred on by the recollections, his head dropped to Steve's shoulder, "Fuck. Fucking stun prod, over and over, take your punishment. No screaming, shut up. Fucking kill one of us, you're gonna pay Soldat. Fuck. Fucking stupid girl." Bucky rasped between panting breaths, "No more talking." The push of his hands on Steve's hips intensified, the tremors forcing a flush to his skin, he rocked his head against Steve's neck.

A ragged pulled in breath, Steve whispered "I'm sorry. So sorry." His face buried in the fall of his hair, arms wrapping tight, holding him through the tremors that shook them both. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I never should have asked."

Bucky's growling struggle, hard pushing to break free, he rolled away in an awkward panting scramble from Steve's lap. A groaned "Fucking cramps," as he curled on the bed next to him grabbing his calf.

"Damn it, Steve, this is what you do, you ask and beg and plead, 'Tell me what happened. Tell me what they did to you,' and then I open that fucking door, give you some stupid bit of my past, and you say 'I'm sorry I asked.' Maybe that's why I don't tell you shit." Bucky slapped away the hands that tried to hold onto him, he rolled to lie flat on his back, arm draped over his eyes. "Fucking jealous of what? A Widow? My shoe collection?"

Steve rolled to face him, hand reaching but not connecting, "I wish it were that simple."

 _"Do you really think he can replace me? Where was he when you fell? When they cut off your arm without so much as a stick to bite on? Has he told you how he searched for you in those snowy mountains? Maybe you're right, bring him with us. The Architect would love to meet him. You and the dogs can dine in opulence on the bones of the Captain. A suitable trade-off for abandoning you."_

Bucky groaned "Liar. Enough. No more, just no more." A bolted upright scramble, yanking Steve onto his belly, a wrestling struggle to climb on his back, shove arms above his head, full weight pressure to hold him down. Steve's body willing in Bucky's hands, allowing full access, not fighting his frantic moves and angry handling, giving in to whatever he wanted.

"This. This is simple." Bucky's breath hot against Steve's ear, tongue licking the delicate flesh, caught between his teeth. Hips pressing insistent up into his ass, a fight to feel something other than fear, craving this body under his, skin-to-skin matching chest to back, thigh against thigh, his push more urgent with every groaned breath that his body forced from Steve. His mouth taking flesh, hard bite and sucking, leaving his dark evidence along the slope of his neck, he whispered, "Us together like this, simple."

Sweat broke across Steve's back, aching heat pushing up from his gut, wanting this moment. The feel of Bucky's weight laid along his body, the promise of what he would do, what they both wanted. Hips pulled to meet Bucky's rhythmic pressure, no thoughts given to their argument, body responding without thinking, muscles slack accepting the warmth of his cock growing. His voice distant and disconnected, logic fighting his need, a desperate ask, "Is the Voice telling you to do this, Buck? Is this you or that damn Voice?"

The out of context question stopping Bucky's taking. Staggered breaths, weight still and heavy on Steve's back, a final stutter, "What? The Voice? No, not that. Me. I want this."

Steve reached to wrap his fingers in Bucky's, pulling his arm, dragging him to roll off his back, a scrambling move to pull him in, arms around his shoulders, face pressing to his chest, "Okay, it's you, I believe you. Good. Not right now though, not now."

The silent pause between them filled with apprehension, incomplete answers, questions not asked, the tension in the room as palpable as the tightness in their bodies. Steve resolved to finish what he started, "I want the Voice to go away. I'm tired of sharing you. Tired of what it does to you. It has to go away."

 _"This will never be, Soldat. You cannot survive without me. He will never make you complete. Redirect him."_

Bucky shook his head, hair rubbing against Steve's chin, "No Voice, it's not like that. Just saying stupid stuff. I'm a loser. Doesn't tell me to hurt you or anyone. I'm safe."

Steve remained insistent, "Yes, Voice. It's talking to you right now. Telling you what to say, what to do."

A push to rise up onto his knees, breaking their contact, Bucky's voice cracked, "What the fuck. You don't know that." He rolled to put space between them, hands wrapping around his knees, "How do you know that?"

Steve moved to crouch near, his reaching hand pushed aside, "I can see it in your eyes, the way you stop talking to me. Buck, you talk to it, out loud. Answering. You're talking to it while we're having sex."

"No. No Voice." Bucky wouldn't look at him, a head shake denying.

Steve countered, "Yes, always, worse now without the medications but yes always. I'm afraid for you, for us. Talk to me."

A deep breath pause, Bucky's eyes narrowed towards Steve, an evident struggle of trust, debating the cost he believed he'd pay, "I know it's not real."

"But, you're listening. I can tell it scares you. What is it saying that scares you?"  
 _  
"This is a dangerous game you're playing Soldat. You need me to survive. He left you to be tortured. Abandoned you to Hydra. You don't need him."_

Bucky's eyes darted to the corner, a head roll at his own indiscretion, he allowed Steve's hand to pull his gaze back to meet his own.

"Tell me what it's saying." Steve moved to kneel within a hair's breadth of Bucky's knees, "I swear I won't regret it or say I'm sorry I asked or act like an idiot. I give you my word."

The moments passed long and tense, no answer, not a nod or a sigh, watching one another, Steve imagined deep breaths, ticking the seconds to minutes in his head, quieting the itch to ask again, to grab arms, shaking out the answers. His self-discipline near gone, a faint pulled in breath to speak cut off.

Bucky's eyes direct, voice unfaltering, "You'll die if you go. It's telling me you'll die. I should leave you behind."

A firm reassurance, "Not gonna die."  
 _  
"You're a disobedient fool."_

A cold countering, "Leave you behind. The man I'm after will torture you. Cut you up into bits and feed you to the dogs." His gaze intense, studying Steve's response, expecting disbelief, "They won't kill me. Never. They'll hurt me. Only wipe my memory. I can do that. Can survive that."

Steve remained firm, "He may try to kill me, he won't succeed. I need to keep them from hurting you."

A faint twitch to his head, Bucky leaned to bring his mouth close to Steve's ear, "You don't know him. He will cut you up, feed you to the dogs - and me. He'd find that funny. I'd never know which meal is you. Always guessing. Hungry, but afraid to eat."

Steve couldn't hold back, "Jesus Buck," hands dropping to shoulders, pulling him tight.

Bucky pushed away, an awkward roll to stumble out of bed, frantic searching for his jeans, pulled on quick, hands shaking, feet shoved bare into his boots.

Steve followed him, "What are you doing?"

An answer thrown over his shoulder, "You need play by play? I'm getting dressed."

"Where are you going?" Steve pulled on his pants, "You were supposed to sleep. You're exhausted."

A curt response as he rummaged in the drawers, "And you're not."

Steve added, "No I'm fine."

Bucky pulled a T-shirt over his head, "Right. Neither of us has slept in days. Your fine, I'm not."

"Don't do this." Steve's hand on his arm swatted away.

A sighed, "Do what?"

Steve stepped to face him, "Walk away. You just told me what the Voice said, now we need to figure out how to ignore it. We're not done here."

A knock on the door, Bucky flinched more than Steve, Natasha's quiet interruption, "Sorry, Rogers, we need to talk."

Steve ran his hand through his hair, their eyes still locked, "Right, be there in a minute, Tasha."

Bucky turned away, gaze drawn to his image in the mirror, words measured and terse, "You're jealous of a Voice in my head. Do you know how stupid that is?"

"Not stupid if it gets between us," Steve stood at his shoulder, gaze connecting in the mirror. An ache twisting in his chest as he watched Bucky's face, anger mixed with pain, trust slipping away.

Sadness chased confusion across Bucky's features, "It's me, Steve. It's my voice. My head."

Body heat prickled skin, as Steve stepped closer, "No it's not. It's hurting you. It's coming between us."

A whispered plea, "It's part of me."

Steve's hand brushed light against Bucky's back, guarded attempt to connect, desperate to turn back the time even by an hour, evident tension warning him away, "I understand, but it's taking you away from me. I can't lose you. Not to Stark, not to the Raft, not even to your own mind."

"I -it - saved me," Bucky spoke to Steve's reflection in the mirror.

Steve's brushed his face to Bucky's hair, eyes half closed, pulling in his scent, irrational fears telling him to take this moment before time passed him by, "I'm sorry, Buck. I know you needed it maybe through everything. But not anymore. I'm here now. It's hurting you."

Bucky shrugged, sadness filling his voice, washing across his features, he watched their mirrored selves, "What do you want me to do? Cut it out of my brain? I said I'd take the medications, but that doesn't make it go away completely. So what do you want? A mind wipe? Maybe you'd like me to do that again. That's what they did. Wipe it away. You and Brooklyn and me, and the Voice. All gone in an instant. Well longer than an instant but who's counting after the first scream?" 

The sound of the front door slamming, Sam's call of "Cap, Nat's got a lot to say, we really need to talk," shook both of them from the moment. 

Bucky sighed, his tone cutting and cold, "Don't keep the Widow waiting." He stepped away from Steve to pick up the pill bottles from the floor.

"I'm sorry. We're not done, just give me a few minutes, come downstairs with me." Steve pulled on a sweatshirt.

Bucky waved an assent, "Yup, right behind you."

Steve paused hand on the doorknob, "I need something, I need you to give me your word."

"I already told you, Mom," Bucky's shake of a bottle clattered the pills inside, "I'll take the meds, stop beating me over the head with it."

A step towards Bucky, Steve's square-shouldered, clear expectation, "No. not that. I need you to give me your word you won't go without me."

Bucky pulled a drawer open, a pointed search, stirring the contents, "These socks never match, are you stealing my socks, Rogers?"

Steve answered, "I am not stealing your socks. Your word, Buck."

He tossed several on the floor, "Birdman then. Such an asshole. What does he want with my socks?"

"You don't wear socks. Remember?" Steve remained focused, "Your word."

A heavy sigh, Bucky turned to face him, "Look, I promise…"

Steve strode forward, stopping chest pressing to a chest, "No. Your word. No bullshit. You won't do this alone. Your word. Stronger than a promise more than a guideline."

A forceful shove drove Steve back against the wall, Bucky's anger flaring, hands pressing tight to biceps, words spoken close, "You don't get it. They'll kill you. Very dead and made into mincemeat. You may think that's fine, but I don't." A stolen caress of his cheek, gaze connecting, drawn down to his mouth, fingers slipping to pull at his lips, a teasing touch of his tongue, a painful breath, "I need you - Alive."

Steve offered no struggle, a returned intense watching, "Not gonna kill me."

Frustration chased across Bucky's face, "Fine. When they kill you, I will have to kill them. But I won't stop there. I'll kill everyone around them, the guards, the staff." A trembling pat of Steve's chest, voice shaking, "Then I'll kill their families, mother, father, children. Fuck, I'll even kill the god damned dog." Tremors shook across his body, anger flaring, "Do you get that?" A hard stroke of Steve's hair, pushing his head to the wall, "Can you get that into your lily-white view of the world. If you die because of me, I will take my vengeance out on everyone who ever came in contact with them." Eyes intense, wide and disconnected, "Until they kill me." Words pressing to Steve's cheek, clenched jaw, tension radating heat to Steve's body, "I am a hard kill, Rogers. It will be a bloody and long crusade. I am a very hard kill."

Steve grabbed Bucky's waist, the roll to flip their positions pinning his hips, a hand caught his throat, fingers sliding down his skin, breath close, weight heavy, "You're done? My turn. I am not letting you leave this room without giving your word."

Bucky pulled in a panted breath, fighting against the pull of Steve's body pressed to his own, a groan when his knee pushed between his legs, forcing them open, "You want to do this. You really want to throw down with me over this. Here and now." Bucky's hand wrapped around Steve's wrist.

Steve muttered, "I will if I have to, but I'm really hoping you don't have it in you to hit me."

Bucky's smirk more sarcastic than amused, "You love this move don't you Rogers. Get real close, your hand on my throat, dragging your fingers on my skin. You like that knee right there too, pressed up against my cock. Push harder." He grabbed Steve's knee and tugged to drive it up into his balls, "There that's better, really force yourself on me." He rasped into Steve's cheek, "Tough little shit from Brooklyn, big enough to really throw your weight around now. Still kicking them in the balls."

Steve shot back, "No, not like that. Maybe I'm hoping you'll want to make love and not fight." His words defensive but Bucky saw the tell of his uncertainty, eyes darting right and back. He knew the look too well.

Bucky's head dropped back against the wall, "No. You already know what you do to me. How you make me feel. How I'll do anything for you, for your touch. You're using this to get what you want. That's called manipulation Rogers. Not winning, not persuasion, not - anything else."

Steve's grip loosened, a clearing step back, hands falling from Bucky's body, gaze taking in the anger on Bucky's face, his eyes full of pain, different than anything he'd seen since being reunited. Unclear of what he was seeing. Regret eating away at his gut.

Bucky shook his head, back still pressed to the wall, "Fuck. Fine. I give you my word."

Steve stuttered, "What? That you'll do what?"

A flat affect, clear statement, eyes direct, empty and guarded, "I give you my word that I won't go alone. Happy now."

Steve stood watching him, "Yes. I am." Guilt roared up from his gut, anxiety wrenching down in his chest, his breath catching short, thoughts raced at what more to say, how to undo the past hours, an inspiration to say something more interrupted.

"Cap, we really need to talk." Sam's call from the bottom of the stairs loud enough not to ignore.

Steve pulled his eyes from Bucky's accusing stare, hand on the doorknob he spoke without turning around, "For the record, I'm sorry. I am doing what needs to be done to keep you safe. I hope you can see that. Please come downstairs."

"Yup. Right behind you." The terse faux cheeriness said volumes as Steve left the room.

Bucky's breathing staggered, gasping pulls to find air, a desperate fight to hold onto a sob, a wildly out of place hiccup sent an uncontrolled laugh through his body, he fell on his hands and knees. "Oh god, oh god. Okay, pull it together." Panted self-talk as he crawled to the bed, fisting hands into the sheets, head down attempt to thwart the spining room, fighting for emotional control. A whispered reassurance, "Okay, we can do this, I'm good." A reach for Steve's sweater, squatting on his haunches, face buried in his scent, breathing deep and hungry pulling him in, a thought to leave it behind aborted, he tugged it over his head.

Fingers pushing aside streaming wetness on his cheeks, clearing his eyes a stumbled move to the closet, rummaging through the bottom he pulled the backpack from the corner. The newly empty space shedding light on silver metal, a hesitant pause, his hand pulled it free. Fingers ran careful along the hard rounded edge, eyes taking in the silver outer ring, the centered red star, the weight not familiar enough. Chest tight with guilt, the shaking sob returning, a fight to quiet the overwhelming shame, convinced he was undeserving of the gift. Echoes of Steve's insistence in Boston, handing off the new shield, T'Challa's creation at Steve's request, the red star telling the story. The shield was meant for Bucky. A careful pull of the bedspread to cover sex-stained sheets, he laid the shield on their bed.

 _"You never deserved that shield."_

"Couldn't agree more," His decisive response, as a hand caressed the metal. A turn to grab the backpack, he stuffed it with three T-shirts, six mis-matched socks and dragged his arm across the bureau top to shove the pill bottles inside.

 _"You don't need those, Soldat. You have me. They will only slow you down."_

A glance up at his reflection in the mirror, hard fought to keep his eyes on his image, a struggle that shame won most often; tear stained cheeks, thick hair disheveled, far past his shoulders, Steve's sweater wrapped loose, hanging over fingers, neck off-centered, comforting and familiar. A few seconds of acceptance, morphing to anger, metal fist slamming his mirror face, the self-loathing winning out, "Shut the fuck up."

Racing thoughts sent fire through his head, a jacket pulled from the closet, a go-bag dragged from under the bed, Steve's well-meaning words echoing, "I'm doing what needs to be done to keep you safe." A muttered rebuttal as he crossed to the open window, "So am I, jerk, so am I."


	12. Chapter 12 Regret

__"Steven mule-assed Grant bull-headed Rogers, so effing sure of himself. Knowing what's good for us. Making all the plans."__

 _ _"Get rid of the Voice in your head Soldat. Take the stupid pills, buddy. Not gonna kill me, pal. I know what's best, screw you, Soldier, what do you know. You're nothing, no one, you don't get to make the plans, you don't get to weigh in."__

 __ _ _"Your ideas mean nothing. Your word means nothing. You are nothing. You are the asset. He is The Star-Spangled Man With a Plan__ _."_

The Voice in Bucky's head.

Steve's hand lingered on the bedroom doorknob, sweat adding a sheen to his palm, steadying seconds to quiet the turmoil in his gut. Bucky's hurt burned into his vision, mouth curving downward, soft lines turned harsh, the tremor they'd come to accept as his norm, magnified by the stress of their fight.

Not wanting to walk away, mind still connected to the spark of anger in gray eyes. Thoughts still reeling with his voiced accusations, "Manipulation Rogers, not persuasion not anything else," heart twisting in his chest at Bucky's hesitation, the word Steve wanted to hear left unsaid, his own feelings spoken not loud enough. Steve's fingers twitching to open the door, to rush back to Bucky, aborted when Sam appeared at the foot of the stairs, "You coming?"

Jaw muscles ticked with the internal debate, follow Sam to the kitchen or push through that door, catching Bucky's hand forcing him along, never letting go. His intuition telling him to go with the tickle at the back of his brain, keep him tightly bound; logic arguing that Bucky gave his word. More than a promise, not anywhere near a guideline. Steve pushed down his fears, threw his faith behind his singular determination and took Bucky at his word; a reluctant step across the landing, fingers slow withdrawn from the door, he headed to hear what Natasha had to say.

Brown painted stairs, braided carpet treads green flecked with beige, a throwback to times long past, suited to the farmhouse Steve chose to make their home, the ticks and creaks breathed with every step a testament to movement through the house. Bucky's soft refrain playing in his head as his bare feet chased down the stairs, "Second stair from the top, step to the left, third stair center; skip the fourth, next one step far right, sixth in the middle, then do it again, step over the eighth, both feet on the ninth." Hand braced light on the banister; ghosting Bucky's grip, a recall of his admonishment, "You're so rough, Stevie, touch it light." His teasing lesson in stealth brought a smile at his double meaning.

Lessons Steve learned studying Bucky, watching him move, silent reconnaissance, a hand testing locks, measured steps to the door, counting obsession more than his past manifesting as anxiety, a quiet drilling down of data. Bucky studying the house, learning its tells and quirks, how it breathed through the seasons, noises that startled at first now comforting, corners not trusted for lack of sight lines and escape routes now embraced for what they were, a safe place through and through. Steve wanted this for him. Safe from the past, the outside world, a place for Bucky to call home, a place for them together.

Dreams dared to come alive here, the echo of Bucky's laughter, newly formed, aching moans pulled by his own hand, bodies pressed close in the dark, intimate touch shared free of pain and coercion. The house offering a secluded haven from the chaos of running; a peaceful dichotomy to the brutality of Hydra.

A flash of memory as Steve moved past the front door, torn from its hinges when Bucky fell apart, none the worse for his efforts. Eyes grazing the wall, the faint color change, evidence of the aftermath of his body crashing through it, thrown there by Bucky, dutifully repaired by him, a bonding moment with Sam. A glance to the sofa, shadowed remembrance lying there, Bucky's weight full between his legs, arms wrapped possessive, soft music bringing long forgotten memories.

Moments of their history clicking through his mind, Steve brought a distracted attention to his meeting with Natasha and Sam in the kitchen. The argument a stinging open wound, his hand with a faint tremor, gut rolling up and over replaying his knee forced between Bucky's legs, defiant anger, words cutting sharp. Burned into his mind's eye, Bucky's features covered in the hurt drawn out by his actions.

Steve tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, fingers exploring the warm bruise, throbbing nerves remembering the mouth that pulled the blood under the bite marks, the statement of Bucky's possession. Skin thick with shared sweat and the aftermath of sex. Despite Sam and Nat's voiced concerns, looking for his direction, his mind remained tight-wrapped around Bucky, caught up in reluctance to walk away, the palpable fear that he'd be gone when he turned around. Faith placed in Bucky's word, "I won't go alone."

An awkward side glance in response to Natasha's raised eyebrow as her eyes lingered on his neck, Steve stood feet widespread, arms crossing, he launched into his diversion, "That was a quick trip to New York. What's wrong?"

The faint rasp to Natasha's voice as she recounted the last twenty-four hours told a story beyond her words. A sleepless night wrangling Maymay, her tale relaying a confusion of facts laced with discovered lies. Twists and turns that rolled forward, Sam's interjected comments underscoring her accounting until it all fell to the back of Steve's hearing drowning beneath the echoes of Bucky's breathing.

Steve's lips full and tender still from their press to his mouth, exploring his skin; his mind's eye recalling the tense arch of Bucky's body, an ask when he pulled his mouth away, an echoed whine at his teasing denials.

The memories fresh, a muscle spasmed with the light touch of tongue to hip, a demanding hand pulling his mouth closer, his kiss soothing the twitch, a caught breath marking Bucky's approval. Body memory bringing a pulse of blood to settle between his legs, his mind seeing Bucky's face, eyes heavy, expression lost in the sensations of Steve filling him rhythmic and deep. The slip of his tongue along his lips, searching for the taste of Bucky's skin, his sweat, the warmth of his mouth, pulled him from everything Natasha had to say.

Bare feet shifting in place, an anxious insistence that he go back to the bedroom, to beg forgiveness, heart aching to drop to his knees, arms wrapping around Bucky's hips, head pressed to his belly, trying to undo the hurt he saw in his eyes as he turned to leave the room. Head wandering lost in the regret of their argument, missing Nat and Sam's insistent banter one word spoken close to his face woke him from his remorse.

"Stark." Natasha stood in front of him, intense gaze, waiting for his response, "Rogers, are you listening to me? Hey, did you hear me?"

Steve answered, "What about Stark?"

"He swears he didn't lie about the data. He's reworking it right now." A slight tilt to Natasha's head a clue to the uptick of her skepticism, not wholly believing Stark but not dismissing him either.

Sam offered, "Stark wants to reconcile with you."

Steve countered, "I'm supposed to trust him now? He told me he'd leave us alone. He told Bucky those cuffs were vibranium, he lied just to screw with him. He dragged him from that jet in handcuffs, shoved him to his knees and terrified him into a seizure. I'm supposed to believe he's benevolent now?"

Sam muttered, "There is that."

 _ _"Damn Birdman. When are you going to man-up and kill that fool."__

The long practiced art of barely ignoring what the Voice had to say saved Wilson so far. The note he left taped to the steering wheel of the truck, "Barnes. You Are Grounded," coupled with the missing battery brought Bucky to reconsider his oath to not kill anyone. The urge to slam the hood thwarted at the last second, the efficient whir of his metal fingers closing, a ghosted grip on Wilson's throat, giving him a moment's satisfaction.

Tense minutes of internal debate, hurt and anger churning in his gut, tearing at his heart, faltering his steps. The pull of Steve; wanting to tell all his truths, confessions good and bad spilling out, wrapped safe in his arms. Heat slipping away, body haunted by the sensation of Steve filling him, emptiness pushing aside comfort, sending coldness across his skin, into his mind, settling in his heart. One desire coming clear, conviction that Steve would be safer left behind, he turned towards the treeline. A muttered "Birdman," as he dug through the go-bag to drag out the not-well-hidden tracker and laid it on the hood. A pulled in breath, he turned towards the surveillance camera on the corner of the house, his attempt to speak held back. Memories jumping forward, familiar and different, looking up at a camera, evidence erased once, now meant to be found.

"Sorry, sorry, it's better this way." Words spoken direct to the camera, meant for Steve.

A turn towards the treeline.

 _ _"Steal the Harley, Soldat."__

Hesitant steps across the driveway, no glance towards the garage.

 _ _"Walking to Siberia without socks?"__

Sighed frustration, slow jog beginning.

 _ _"Nice and slow. Sprinting never your strong pace."__

Thigh muscles contracting, full pounding into a run.

 _ _"Demarcation line coming up."__

A shift in the landscape, pace slowing, rock ledge just before the trees.

 _ _"This is it, Soldat. End of the line for his protection. Life on the run begins."__

Outer limits of their surveillance, tested and tried by Bucky, inches from his feet.

 _ _"First step over that line. He'll know you're gone."__

Hard drop to his knees. Breath ragged with doubt.

 _ _"He'll come after you."__

Tear through the go-bag. Glock checked and tucked in his waistband, knife sheathed at his back; burner phone shoved in his jacket pocket; rote prep, ticking off thirty seconds.

 _ _"Just like Hydra, chopper in the air, an army of soldiers looking for you. Stun guns, nets, bollo. Remember that? Took you down like the animal you are."__

Hair gathered up, the scrunchie never returned to Romanova.

 _ _"Tranquilizers."__

Old routines not forgotten.

 _ _"Mother."__

Breath caught. He dropped cross-legged on the ground.

 _ _"Good times, Soldat, real good times."__

Gaze intent, chest tightening, he stared at their home.

"What the hell were you thinking Rogers? A farmhouse?" His muttered out loud questions meant to be skeptical, laced with his sadness, "I don't want to do this. I don't. But you're so damn stubborn. He'll kill you and I can't, can't let that happen."

Bucky's gaze fell with longing at their home, a secret hope to see the back door open, Steve stepping out, his turn to stare right at him up on the ridge. His path clear through the field, a slow, determined stride, pissed off Rogers emanating from every pore. A near smirk when his waking dream had Steve start to run, a smile for how he'd make his escape, weaving, and dodging, a game he knew he couldn't win, but he'd make him sweat before the take-down. Full smile at the thought of that reunion, only these few minutes separated, laughter for the image of them rolling on the ground, leaves in his hair. Ending with a kiss, the kind that tells of a lifetime lost, finally found.

Bucky let his imaginings fall away. Their argument decisive, no going back, no winning with Steve, only taking things into his own hands.

 _ _"On your own, it's for the best. You've always worked alone."__

His alternate ending dismissed, he pulled himself to his feet, a lingering aching glance towards their home. One last deep, steadying breath, he bounded across the invisible line that marked their surveillance outer reaches knowing the ping would echo through the house. Chest tight, pulse-pounding, he ran full speed to put distance between himself and Steve, knowing he wouldn't be far behind.

Knowing this would break his heart.

"There's truth in every lie." Natasha stood close to Steve, watching his face.

He added, "And a lie in every truth," jaw clenching, eyes dropping to the floor, a hesitant moment coming close to confiding. Wanting to spill his regret, a muttered, "We argued..." cut short by the perimeter alarm.

High-pitched pulsing sound not loud enough to drown their words, sufficient to snap at their attention. Intrusive for Sam and Natasha, deafening for Steve, hearing enhanced, a split second wondering if the CIA had found them; quick thought to getting Bucky close. He turned for the bedroom.

Sam called, "Let me check it, last time it was a deer," as he headed for the surveillance computers tucked in a room off the kitchen.

Quick steps across the living room, Natasha close behind, Steve's pace sped up, gut-clenching, heat flushing red wave of realization that the perimeter alarm worked both ways, he breathed one word, "Buck." Taking the stairs three at a time, words under his breath, "No, not again, don't do this, please don't do this."

Hand on the doorknob, abrupt push to open, the glimmering hope to find Bucky, angry and defiant not mattering to Steve, as long as he stood in their bedroom. Mind rushing forward, arguments can be resolved, anger soothed; leaving alone, betraying his word another matter. His word, solemn promises taken on faith, "Why would he lie?" Racing through his thoughts, holding his breath until the ache burned hot in his lungs.

Steve's eyes raking across the empty room, his breath let out, "No, not buying this, not again."

Worry giving way to disappointment, frozen in place, ticking away each clue to what happened, broken mirror, open window, clothing spread across the floor, his gaze settling firm on the red-starred shield lying in the middle of their bed; a message clear without words or a note. Steve's demands too much, wounds too deep to bear, the only safety found in retreat.

Hiding his remorse, defensive words, "Damn it, what the hell is he thinking," Steve's move through the room, quick and efficient, a glance out the window, check under the bed, "Go-bag is gone." Hand raking through his hair, ragged breath buying time to think.

Natasha watching from the doorway, "Why would he run, Steve? What happened?"

"Long story," Steve shook his head, "I don't believe this, he's here, somewhere. He wouldn't do this."

Desperate pushing aside of clothes in the closet, a search for the backpack, once tucked deep in the corner, a secret not shared. Steve found it one day, never telling but checking whenever Bucky retreated. Each time a sighed relief, reassured that Bucky was still there, withdrawn but safe, anxiety quieted, watchful waiting for his reemergence, his desire for solitude accepted. No need to discuss when it ended. Silent reappearance, hesitant body language, understood with a look, head lowered, tenuous steps, a finger slipping in a belt loop, finding safety in Steve's encircling embrace.

His words sounding distant, not his own, "Backpack's gone, shit," the rush of heat that pulsed through his head dropping to churn chaos through his gut. Steve's fist tearing through the drywall pulled a startled twitch from Natasha, his drop to his knees brought her hand to his shoulder.

"He's only got a few minutes ahead of us, let's get moving," her words spoken with surety.

Steve's hands dug in scattered clothes, breathing ragged, heart pounding into his temples; pulling out one item, dark blue, fraying that told of being worn threadbare, the red, white and blue shield a faded emblem. A quiet cherished garment, Bucky's constant wearing garnering teasing from Wilson, a sly smile from Steve, the T-shirt not discarded but giving way to Steve's sweater. Balled up in one hand, pulled close to his chest, hidden from the eyes of others. A heartbeat of clarity, he nodded, voice cracking, "I hurt him, Tasha, I hurt him in so many ways."

"I find that hard to believe," She brushed fingers light across his cheek, "He has his reasons, now we go get him." A hard pull on his arm to urge him to his feet.

Sam spoke from the doorway, "It was him, got it on the video, heading East, same as last time." He pointed at the bureau, "At least he took the medications."

Steve ran his hand across the bureau, muted words, "Right, he probably flushed them, we fought about them, fought about that damn Voice in his head. Fuck, I'm an idiot."

"Gonna get my wings, he can't be far; hopefully he doesn't take a shot at me." Sam hurried down the stairs.

"I'll get the go-bags ready," Natasha's hand tightening on his forearm, an attempt to pull at his attention, his gaze locked on the clothing tight held in his hand, "Whatever you fought about doesn't matter right now, all that matters is catching up with him."

"Right behind you." A faint nod distracted by his thoughts, "Right behind you."

Natasha allowed a shrug, "Don't forget he's a ghost when he wants to be, clock's ticking," she followed after Sam.

Eyes closed, blocking out the broken glass, clear bureau top, scattered clothes; the shield abandoned, his legacy for Bucky, a hope for redemption succumbing to his shame. The ping of the alarm gone quiet, no sounds intruding. A few stolen seconds to steady his breaths, willing his heart to slow its pace, gathering scattered thoughts. Fighting down the self-loathing, "I did this, I made you go. I'm the jerk you've always thought I was, I'm sorry, so fucking sorry." A glance back at the window, irrational hope a metal hand would grab the sill, seconds passing in the empty silence, an unwilling turn to leave, Bucky's T-shirt tucked in his back pocket, running to catch up with Natasha.

Rapid-fired demands as Steve ducked to check the downstairs bedroom, "This isn't happening, where's the phone, call him." Steps to head for the kitchen, doubled back to bump into Natasha, "Call him, he's pissed at me, he'll never answer if I call." He stood too close, expectant in front of her, intense, a tremor nearly evident. A few seconds staring he moved on as she dialed.

Natasha dialed, again and again, racing to keep up with Steve on his frantic search of the house, "He's not picking up. You know he won't."

Steve's breaths gasping short and rapid, unspoken worry tearing at his thoughts, knees to the floor in the tactical room, the first place to explore under the table, no evidence of his recent presence, mental ticking off the list of safe places. Racing from comfort to retreat, searching the known and guessed corners that offered a place of safety, doubling back, trying to catch his shadow, convinced he was there, hiding in plain sight.

A stumbled pause as Natasha corralled him to shove the comm earpiece in place as he tossed aside the gym equipment. Steve never spoke his name, no calling or begging, knowing he'd never answer, telling himself it's all a game, hide and seek, nothing more than a childhood game. Half-hearted anger that he would let it carry on for so long. Bucky watching, hand over his mouth, stifling the laugh, making Steve suffer, rightly so, payback for questioning his sanity. An internal groan at Bucky's petulance, more than willing to lose the game just to have him back, desperate to hear his laughter even at his own expense.

Aching pain in the truth of what his body and mind told him. Bucky wasn't there.

Natasha's terse begging ignored, "We've looked here already, he's gone."

Bucky's words "It's part of me," haunting Steve, forcing him to move. A push past Natasha to race to the old barn, tearing through crates and equipment, lingering in the loft, feeling the hint of their time there just a few hours earlier. Hearing his voice again, "I know where to find him." Nightmares waking, hinted stories, the plan to go after a man, no names except the whispered reference "The Architect." Staccato memories assailing Steve's awareness, hoping he'd find him tucked in a corner. The only trace of their morning an upturned floorboard that hid the tattered shoe box, the milk crate seat next to the door.

Sam's report garbled in their ears, "I got nothing out here. No signs, how the hell does he disappear like this?"

Nat's hand on Steve's chest meant to catch his attention, "Sam's in the air. No sign of him. He's moving fast then."

Her concern pushed aside, Steve's rasped denial, "No he's here I know it, he's still here."

Their voices muddied under the raging flow of guilt, a flash to his time beneath waters, dulling his hearing, consciousness sinking slow and sure into the darkness of despair. Bucky's words the only voice coming clear, "It saved me."

Fists clenching tight then loose, body moving, no logic directing his search, only desperation pushing his feet to run. Natasha working to keep him in her sight. Barn to the yard, aching pulled in breaths. The Harley in the garage, the truck in the driveway, Nat's car left untouched. A tracker left on the hood of the pickup.

Sam's muttered complaint, "How the hell did he know about that," pulled back at Steve's grunted disapproval.

Natasha's brief assessment of distance, time and place, objective evidence, falling to the back of his hearing. Only Bucky's voice front and center, bright and sure, "I give you my word. I will not go alone."

Bloody dirt caked on the soles of his feet, Natasha's hands pulling him back to the house, darkness engulfing, cold wrapping his body, the light of day sitting above the treetops, slipping away, yellow to red to black, taking Bucky away with every ticking second.

Faint updraft from Sam's wings stirring the air around them as his feet hit the ground, his words echoing real and in their ears, "We're gonna need Fury's help, heat sensing devices, dogs, choppers..."

Steve grabbed the flight pack straps, hauling him closer, tense words eye-to-eye, "No. No dogs, no choppers. We will find him ourselves."

"Whoa, Steve, with you here. Just trying to help." Sam pulled the goggles from his face.

Tense moments facing off, Steve staring at Sam, Natasha waiting it out; broken with Steve's release, a turn away then back, head shaken at himself, hand on Sam's chest, "Sorry, not called for."

"I get it. You know I get it." Sam's words reassuring.

Natasha redirected, "Fury will help us. Let's get moving."

A longing stare towards the road, Steve's calculating gaze raked across the tree line, replaying Bucky's run before, sitting in the woods, watching them come and go. A hope that he sat there again, the heat of their argument telling him otherwise, the echo of the hurt chasing anger across Bucky's features convincing him that he was nowhere near them by now. A whisper heard only by himself, "I need you." His mind giving in to the numbness of losing him again, feet frozen to the ground, tense muscles going slack, a murmured, "Come home."

Natasha's voice close, "Steve we've gotta go."

Natasha and Sam herded him towards the house, dragging an arm, pushing from behind tripping up steps through the glass and oaken door, slamming hard as they made their way inside.

"Go bags in the tactical room. Fury will meet us." Natasha's assessment curt and low.

Her fingers dug into Steve's sweatshirt leading him down the basement stairs, across the gym, his eye caught by a shadow in the corner, sure of the figure, long hair, silent and staring. A dared hope that Bucky played a terrible joke, payback for the absurdity of being jealous of a Voice in his head. Heartbeats skipping as he studied it closer; nothing more than clothing draped from a hook, taunting his mind. Giving over of his body, letting them push and pull, dragging him forward, no logical thoughts left except the pain of regret.

Feet crossing the threshold, Steve's hearing sure of a whisper, cherished laughter hinted low, lost for what seemed like forever, its return private, only for him, hidden from all others. Bucky's murmured words, a soft pulled whine, his close-guarded gift, Steve's mind straining to find it, sure that he heard it wafting from the top floor, some new hiding place, missed in his desperate search. Convinced Bucky would step out from a closet, eyes shining with the promise of rolling laughter for him alone, an intimate reunion behind closed doors. A joke played to make Steve squirm.

He broke from Natasha's hands, racing back up the stairs, close followed by her, heading for Bucky's old bedroom, a skidding stop in the doorway.

Steve's heart pounding loud behind his eardrums, a murmured groan creeping from his throat. The empty room clear even in the fading light of the day, a wave of nausea creeping from his gut, tight breath catching short and brittle, body memory of his days with asthma, the echo of Bucky's worried concerns, "Use your inhaler, Stevie, can't be losing you."

A staggered step at the ghosted voice, shoulder to the wall, a slide down to fall curled in on himself at the foot of Bucky's bed. Head in his hands, knees raised cheeks hot with the strain of his desperate search, eyes blinking shut against the sting, a question only he could answer, "What have I done?"

Sam's expectant assessment coming across in his ear, "Go bags, phones, hard drive, weapons we are good to go Cap. On your word. Good to go."

Steve didn't hear Natasha as she dropped to her knees next to him. A hand slipping around his bicep, unnoticed, an odd shaped item deposited in his lap pressed there until his eyes opened and his body stirred.

Her voice soft, "You can blame yourself, you can blame him. Or Hydra, or Stark. Doesn't matter right now. What we need to do is go after him. Maybe you should share what the hell happened today."

He let his head drop back to the wall, "My fault, I told him, I actually told him I was jealous of that Voice in his head," the huffed laugh full of self-derision.

"Rogers, that Voice is all he's had for years. His only company, it's part of him."

Steve rocked his head against the wall, "That's exactly what he said. Not only did I basically call him crazy..."

She settled her shoulder next to his, "I doubt you said that."

"In so many words. I did," a sighed quiet response.

"He ran because you told him the truth about how you felt about that Voice?"

"No. That's why he's pissed at me." A cross-legged adjustment to his sit, the shoe box opened, contents rummaged through until the white folded paper pulled free. "He's not running away." His two finger hold of the folded square of soiled paper brought him back to what felt like days ago, only that morning. Bucky's distracting crawl across the tactical room table, finger pressed to that nondescript note, the meaning coming clearer now, gazes locked on the scribbled memory, "He's leaving me behind."


	13. Chapter 13 Revelations

Cold wind cut sharp into Steve's face, eyes half shut fighting its bite, scouring glances to his left, irrational hope of seeing a dark figure scrambling through the woods, paralleling the road to the airport.  
His opinion firm when presented with Fury's strategy, the pain of his argument with Bucky kept private, the Harley's guttural scream a surrogate for all that he wanted to express.

Shoulders crouching into the headwind, the hurried conference in the tactical room replaying in his mind. Fury's presence looming on the computer screens, his perspective narrow, plan decisive, full-on manhunt. Steve revolting at his word choice "Capturing Barnes." Natasha's defense of Stark, her willingness to give him a chance laced with a healthy dose of skepticism.

All efforts aimed at persuading Steve, hands braced on the table, tension evident, tight jaw, white knuckles, not speaking a word. A survey of the room, Fury's image in front of him, Sam flanking his right, Natasha close on his left. Opinions swirling pressured talk stumbling one over the other, their words competing for his attention, time ticking louder in his head. Bucky's stride carrying him farther away with every word and second.

Fury's tone confident, "We'll get him back, Rogers. I've got a team mobilizing as we speak."

"Cap, I'm back in the air when you call it," Sam eager to help.

Natasha adding as she examined the white paper clue to Bucky's destination, "Three sets of numbers. You said he called his target The Architect?"

A curt assessment by Fury, "The lead on the weapons in Cartagena was a set-up, he pissed off a lot of powerful people when he went after Hydra on that Boston mission."

Sam adding, "Flush him out, get him on the radar, he's up for grabs, Hydra, CIA, Interpol."

Steve's anger rising with Fury's grousing, "My choppers are off the ground, he won't be stealing from me again. He'll go for your quinjet, we'll catch him there."

"What the hell is he thinking? "Sam argued, "That man from his past has to be dead by now."

Fury's agitated pace evident across the screens, "Rogers, he hasn't called his therapist in weeks, that was my one express stipulation for doing missions. He stopped the medications, didn't he? You didn't think to tell me about that?"

Hand on Steve's arm, whispered voice from Natasha, "Whatever happened between you two, you're the only one he trusts."

"Stark will figure out who's behind that mess in Cartagena," Fury's voice clear even as he disappeared from their view.

Steve countered, "Stark? I'm not trusting his agenda right about now."

Fury dropped in a chair, his features filling the screen, "We'll get Barnes under lock and key, get him the help he needs. If he still wants to explore that old shoebox then fine we can take a look at it."

Tension settled in Steve's jaw, muscle twitch clear beneath his beard, body stiffening, closed fist connecting with the table, "Bullshit. We're back to this again? Locking him up? His plan broke Hydra's base in Boston, his plan dumped their data into Stark's lap, he called it about Cartagena, acting too late on that intel. When does he get the credit? When do you and everyone else stop trying to cage him?"

Fury's backpedaling, "The wrong choice of words, Rogers," didn't stop him from still pushing, "Stark wants to help. I want to help. Barnes is off the rails, he proved that in Cartagena, proving it now, you said he was stable, trustworthy. Here we are, he's back on the run. Doing what? Chasing dead men? Taking commands from an auditory hallucination? You need help with him. Let us help you."

Steve's thoughts flashed to the surveillance image of Bucky, gaze direct, a message meant for him, words clear even without the audio, "Sorry, sorry, it's better this way." Calmness spreading out from his gut, sure in his new-forming belief that Bucky knew where he was going all along. Holding onto his conviction that he wasn't running away but leaving him behind, protecting him, a final word as he strode towards the door, "I - we don't need your help. He doesn't answer to you, we don't answer to you."

"Rogers, he's a liability..."

A quick turn back, finger pointed at the screen, "Stay away from him. Stay away from us."

Minutes spent in the tactical room feeling like hours, urgency roaring up from his gut, spreading across his chest, Fury's last words replaying in his mind, "You better get to him before the rest of us do." Body hunching down tight to the Harley, hand, and foot working in tandem, he pushed the bike to its limits of speed trying to join Bucky sure that he knew where he was heading. 

Tony Stark favored the wheeled stool with a low back while spending long hours consuming the data that encircled him in his lab. Holographic screens hovering random, luminescence surrounding, the soft pool glimmering in the center his spotlight, the shifting bright to dark glow bathing him in their reflection. Darkness spreading deeper out towards the corners of the room, dim, to faded to black.

The call from Natasha spurring him on, the accusations of setting them up a personal affront. A return to the Boston data an effort to prove himself justified, a means to deflect from events on the tarmac, festering wounds with Steve, embarrassment at his own loss of control. The nagging tick of sympathy towards the man he hated at odds with his need for justice, a hint of regret at the lie about the handcuffs, emotions pin-balling back and forth matching the roll of his stool.

Delving deep into the methodical work of data, an attempt to avoid a glaring request. A book centered on his desk, sitting in its own bright pool of light, never opened by his hand but its invitation growing.

A rolling push left to right, a hard swipe across the air, notations muttered barely audible, picked up by the microphone nestled on his head. An opposite slide right to left, swiping back and forth, replay on replay of old information calculated new, pulling apart every layered nuance.

Each trip side to side, a lingering glance towards the book settled in the soft glow of a reading light. Waiting patient, attentive, near a demand to be explored. Something Stark remained loathed to answer, any demands, the book locked away for over a year. Too painful to approach, the gut-tearing feelings pushing recklessness, better to hide it safely tucked away. Pulled out now after the tarmac, after Barnes fell to his knees at his feet, questions about visions and torture, images sliding past his face adding to the crawling sensation that Rogers may have been right about Barnes. He wasn't in control of his mind.

"Just doesn't fit." Scratching his head to stir his hair into an unnatural curve up. Tony spoke to the air, staring at the manifests of Hydra connections, weapons, and locations, contacts branching layer on layer, the missing link eluding him.

Aberrant image rolling past, pulled back by his finger, yellow background, black lock piquing his interest, "Keeping secrets are we?" Rapid taps to launch a program, a separate image showing the progress, letters, and numbers searching for the password. Tony's gaze fell to the book, dark leather near glowing in its pool of light. A tenuous reach to touch it aborted by a ping, yellow background turned to green, absent comment "Well that was easy, stop using your dog's name as a passwo..." stopped short by the three-word bold statement on the screen, **Winter Soldier Project.**

" _You never learn, do you Soldat? This is a supremely bad idea. No wonder Hydra wiped your mind, repeatedly."_

Bucky's scurry down the embankment in the dark devolved into slipping to his butt, ending in a slide on his back landing hard next to the road.  
 _  
"Graceful as..."  
_  
"Don't. Just don't." A purposeful shake of his head to clear the leaves, quick inventory of the ache at his back from landing on the knife, check at his waistband for the Glock, he dropped the backpack between his legs, stuck a flashlight in his mouth and pulled out the pill bottles. "Medication time," a sing-song mutter around the flashlight, "Fuck no water. Oh well."

 _"Once again, poor planning. This is why..."_

"Wonder if double dosing works better?" Heavy sigh as he dry-swallowed the meds, pulling himself to his feet, a purposeful turn towards the driveway yards away. Faint shiver of uncertainty tossing his gut up and over to settle down into a familiar tightness. Bucky took one step, then another and yet again, undeterred when the motion lights flashed on, ignoring the whir of cameras following him, he kept moving forward down the drive. Conscious effort to lock away his memories of Steve, deep-seated in that compartment long used to hide him, forever protected. Steps counted, stride measured, muttered numbers divisible by three, he headed towards his inevitable face-to-face with Tony Stark. 

Images flashing over and beside, circling and dancing, slipping by Tony's vision, sepia-toned and worn, photos of pictures, headlines, and files, Hydra's ancient history. Haunting face darting past, his hand catching the movement, pulling it back to hover clear in front of him. Black leather-clad man, metal arm, red star, weapons hanging from his body, a rifle in his hand. Tony stared hard, fighting the pull of the man's voided gaze, features flat and cold. Tight burn in his chest not wanting to be taken in by the image, drawn to study him closer. A slide from his stool, one step then another, his breath sending ripples across the image, mental note of gray eyes, mind, and heart delving into the picture searching for the hint of a soul.

A lilting disembodied voice jarring the moment, "The visitor you were expecting has arrived, Sir." Tony stumbled back a step, shaking his head, hand slashing push to make the image spin chaotic circling around him time and again, slowing to a stop on his left.

"Thank you, F.R.I.D.A.Y, please have him shown in here." Anxious steps wandering.

"Sir, he is armed."

Huffed laugh turned to serious, "No doubt. So am I, so am I." Settling retreat to the stool. Slow spin turning quicker anxious energy spilling out through his feet, pushing himself around in a circle until the dizziness blurred his vision, he caught his turn on the counter. Eyes closed steadying equilibrium, deep breaths to ease the tightness in his chest, hand darting to flick images again, up and over, down and aside, stopping on the man-sized chambers.

"Cryostasis over the years. A PBS Special" muttered words meant as a joke, spoken aloud, their humor falling flat even for him.

Deliberate scattering of the data in the air around him, keeping the image of the chambers locked ahead, holding the picture of the Soldier to his left. His gaze seeming to bounce next to next as he slid side to side, attention disrupted by his impending visitor, caught up by the book as his stool rolled past. Fingers tentative reaching, slipping to run cautious across the aged leather, marked by time and wear. A hesitant fingertip under the cover, a start to explore the pages falling away with the lab door opening.

One man standing in the doorway, face in the shadows, the swatch of light from the hallway spilling across the darkness surrounding him in its glow.

A secretive pull of papers to cover the book, Stark spun on the stool to turn his back to the man.

"Arnie took you long enough. I'm starving," Tony's waved hand a flourished greeting, pointing at the desk, "What are we having tonight? It's Wednesday, your night to pick, or is it Tuesday and my night? Thursday? I lose track of time when I'm studying my enemies."

Silent steps forward, the door closing behind, hallway light dissipating. Bucky moved through the shadows, cautious angled pace inching forward, studying gaze, holding to the dark outer reaches of the room, remaining mute to Stark's questions.

Bucky's attention caught up by the scene, reluctant wonder, flashes of Howard Stark's science. The hovering circle of projected screens colors morphing, images hanging in the air, moving and not, all of it spilling its glow into the center, casting its bright, soft-edged spotlight on its master, Tony Stark.

Shimmering and skittering names, numbers, pictures of places foreign at first, no more than glittering objects to be eyed with amazement. Breath caught up in guarded excitement pulled back as the history came clear. Hydra's data rolling past Bucky's gaze, familiar places sliding by, twisting his gut, pulse throbbing at his temple as he stared at his own face, dark and somber, himself and not himself, hovering within an arm's reach, close-guarded tremor moving down his body.

Tony spoke again, eyes focused on the lucent wall of data back turned to Bucky. "Bring it in, Arnie, walk right through, pay no attention to the ugly guy with the metal arm. Just a hologram. Nothing real about him."

Nausea tore at Bucky's gut, knees weakening, a fight to hold onto his thoughts as he stood in Stark's lab, the man so close he could smell his sweat, his past hanging exposed between them. Shimmering images sliding past at the mercy of Stark's fingers, scene after scene of his history, spinning around the room. One picture stopping his breath, his torn away arm flickering up, Stark's head-tilted study lasting three seconds, Bucky so certain, counting internal, three long seconds before the image danced aside to hide beneath the numbers.

Eyes struggling to stay on Stark, drawn to chase the pictures spinning around the room, fighting to keep his focus, pulled in by taunting images. Faces of men, names burned into his memory, the chamber history in pictures forcing the cold to creep under his skin. Bile rising burn at his throat, ghosting hands on his body, dragging him from his sleep. Final reminder skittering past, the dark engulfing machine meant to wipe away all that he knew, brought to a halt in front of his face by the flick of Tony Stark's finger.

Bucky's dare to wonder morphing to panic with every slide of Stark's hand pushing his history across the air, life slipping past, reduced to a clinical exam, data on data, an asset to be studied, reviewed, refined and manipulated. Pulling in a deep breath to ground scattering thoughts, flesh fingers tangling in the hem of Steve's sweater an attempt to quiet the tremors he stepped through the image of himself as the Soldier to enter Stark's circle of light.

"You're pretty quiet tonight. Spring cold? Cat got your tongue? Oh, wait." Tony waved a hand in the air to land two fingers on his temple, "You're not Arnie, my favorite delivery guy. You're an assassin, modus operandi kill first, talk later. No small talk with your targets?" Stark never turned around.

Bucky stood square wide-stance, eyes wary and full, holding close the sickness rolling in his gut, sweat forming cold on his neck, hair pulled up in a ball, gaze intent on the back of Stark's head. Ready for what would come next.

"Turning around now, so don't get jumpy." A slow-motion spin of the stool brought Stark to face him, a near smirking grimace, "So you found the open entrance. Well done."

Bucky didn't answer, eyes locked on the glow at the center of Stark's chest.

Tony tilted his head, "Sober this time?"

Voice dry, more cracked than he wanted, "Sober."

Languid roll of his shoulders, Tony crossed his arms, "You walked right into the Avengers Facility. My home by the way. You really do have balls don't you?"

 _"Some genius. Give him time, he'll figure it out."_

A muttered, "Under debate."

A sudden shift of his feet, Tony's smile came and went at Bucky's flinching step back, "Are you here to make it three for three?"

"Three? What? How do you know..." The tremor that shook his body, hard to hide, cutting off his words.

"Three. Dad. Mom. Me." A thumb raised, then a forefinger. The last gesture a single middle finger.

Bucky's purposeful denial, "No. I don't want to."

Tony's squinted question emphasized by a wag of the extended finger, "Why the gun then? You're armed right? Tucked right there." He pointed at Bucky's waist.

Deep breath to force out his answer, "Not going to make the same mistake as the quinjet."

A huffed laugh and hands waved in the air, "What? No Score?"

Bucky muttered, "Not a game."

A snarled observation, "Funny way to surrender, with a gun tucked in your pants, a knife at your back. You were scanned when you walked in here. What's that in the backpack?" Tony tapped on a holographic screen, "Right. Medications. An assassin who takes his meds. How responsible of you."

"Not surrendering." Split-second flicker of his gaze to Stark's face before returning to settle on the glow of the arc.

Stark rose from his stool, "Okay, are we going to play 20 questions here?"

Bucky scrambled steps back, hand moving to the Glock not pulling it clear, "Don't." A chiding thought towards himself for flinching.

 _"Pathetic, Soldat."_

Tony laughed, "See this right here," a finger to the glow on his chest. "It's the suit. All it takes is a tap, one finger and the suit appears, boom. Nanotechnology. Really amazing stuff." Two steps taken towards Bucky driving him back equal steps. "If you weren't the cold-blooded murderer of my parents maybe we could share pastrami on rye and chat about it."

"What the fuck?" A stubborn firm effort to not let his feet move more than Stark's advances, keeping their measured distance.

"Let's bet. How fast can you drag that gun out of your pants, pull that trigger then how fast does that bullet travel?" Stark flicked a screen down and away, another one up, finger tapping furious, "Let's do some math. Do you mind? I'm just going to calculate who dies first. Me or you. Your gun and trigger finger against my suit. I don't like losing, so I don't make bets I'm likely to lose."

Bucky's hand fell away from the Glock, "I don't want to hurt you."

Stark waved a hand towards the door, "It's over. You walked in here. That's surrendering in my book. Security is on its way."

"Security is always on its way." Rolling his shoulder, chasing after the beading sweat that rolled down his back.

Tony took another step closer, "You don't look well. Just give me the gun and the knife and whatever other weapons you've gut shoved down your pants and let's call it a night."

Bucky moved again, guarding the distance between them, "Not surrendering."

Stark paced in front of him, "Then why the fuck are you here if you're not here to kill me or surrender, it's not movie night. What brings you here?"

Shifting weight left to right, "I need something from you."

"Oh, this is rich." Tony's full body laugh dropping him onto the stool.

Bucky raised his eyes to meet Stark's, counting his numbers internal, close call with nearly spilling them out loud pulled back by biting his lip. Seconds passing in silence before, "I have a mission."

Tony's sarcasm not hidden, "And you want what? A box lunch, a jet; no wait, how about a handler?"

Gaze not wavering, "No."

"Fine." Stark leaned back crossing his arms, "I'm a man with more than just money, brains, good looks. I have a fair, actually a large amount of curiosity. Tell me, what a sad piece of shit like you might think he needs from me. I have some ideas, but I'll let you go first."

Bucky's words firm, "I need you to not hurt him."

Tony questioning, "Rogers I assume. You don't want me to hurt Rogers?"

Forging ahead, "A man from my past. Hydra. He needs to be stopped. I have to go without him. This is on me. My mission. Have to leave him behind."

"So you want me to babysit Rogers? We're not on speaking terms. You recall that correct?" A finger waved at his head then pointing at Bucky, "Oh, wait, you're the reason we're not on speaking terms."

Deep

breath pulled in, hard swallow to start, "No. Don't hurt him." Bucky ran his tongue across dry lips trying to find the words, "I'm asking you to not hurt him." Weight shifting foot to foot, anxiety twisting in his chest, "I give you my word. I will give up to you. Surrender to you. Ross, the Raft, kill me. Just let me finish this mission and don't hurt him."

Stark jerked up from the stool, angry pacing, "Why the hell would I trust you? Trust your word?"

Bucky didn't look away, feet firmly planted, both thumbs twisting into Steve's sweater, "You have nothing to lose. Everything to gain."

Hissed within an arm's reach, "I have everything I need."

Voice quiet, Bucky sure of his answer, "You don't have him."

Tony stepped closer, anger chasing across his face, fist closing pulling at Bucky's attention, seconds passing taking forever, "This isn't some love triangle."

Bucky raised his eyes, connecting with Stark, "Not love. Not that. I don't know what to call it. Not paid to know, just do. Not paid at all."

 _"So close Soldat, so very close. Within reach of your hand, a glorious end to die with him."_

Words coming easier, breath falling into a slow rhythm, the glare coming from Stark losing its meaning, "He was protecting me. That's what he does. Protects people. Protects the weak. You didn't need protection. He wanted to save me. He did." Slow blinking through his whisper, "My turn now, save someone. He can't come with me, but I need to know you won't hurt him while I'm gone."

Tony's fist fell slack, back straightening, a half step back, anger giving way to wary curiosity, staring long and hard at Bucky, meeting his unwavering gaze. More steps backing away, minutes passing between them, no words, close study of the man he hated, not resembling the image still hanging suspended over his shoulder. Features wearing fatigue, Tony's gaze running over him, closer look than ever allowed, both thumbs entangled in the threads of a sweater hanging below his jacket, pack slung on his back, long hair pulled up in a ragged mess. Gray eyes not empty or cold, more lost than deadly.

He pointed at Bucky. "Can't believe I'm saying this. No one would believe I'm saying this. You've got a leaf in your hair."

Bucky didn't move.

Stark turned towards a hovering screen, pushing the Hydra data down to disappear, pulling up a map, "Where's this mission of yours? I'm supposed to trust that once you're done, you'll show up at my door again?"

Shaking his head, pulling in a steadying breath, "You don't need to know where. If I live, yes. I'll come back."

Tony stretched his back, "Not good enough. Are you walking there?"

 _"_ _Starting_ _to like this one."_

Bucky frowned, "No. I'm resourceful. I'll get there."

Stark swung around, quick steps to move within his reach again, "Great. I'm sure you're quite resourceful but here's the deal. You are now my future prisoner so if you want me to 'not hurt him' then we do this my way. I get to know where you're going and you take my quinjet. That way I track you even if you're lying. I can follow your sorry ass wherever you go. You veer off the path, I come after you. You don't show up at your destination, I come after you. You don't come back in what, one week?"

Bucky countered, "Four weeks."

Stark not accepting, "Too long, two weeks."

A firm non-negotiable, irritated, "Not long enough. Three weeks."

Tony stared at him for at least six seconds by Bucky's count, "Fine. Three weeks it is. Sold. Deal made. I will be on your ass so fast at one minute past midnight in twenty-one days you will not know what ran you over." A quick return to the screens, fingers pushing and slashing images side to side.

Bucky stood his ground watching the back of his head, "Do I have your word you won't hurt him?"

A curt, "You do." Tony swung around to face him. "Do I have your word that you'll give yourself up?"

Steps taken to close the gap, Bucky stopped within an inch of the glow embedded in Stark's chest, breath long and slow, no hiding the tremor that sat beneath his skin every minute of every day. Eyes brought up to meet Stark's hard gaze, "I give you my word when I am done with this mission, I will surrender to you, I won't fight it, won't change my mind."

Tony asked, "Not even for him?"

The words catching hard in this throat, a whisper so low, Stark strained to hear it, "He's better off without me." Bucky turned to walk away, feet dragging to a halt he spoke to Stark over his shoulder, "One last thing, if you kill me. Please don't do it in front of him."

"You're no fun." Stark turned to plot Bucky's flight path. An afterthought thrown in, "Remember, if you don't get back here in twenty days, twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes I'm coming after you."

Bucky's final retort under his breath, "Got it. Trust me, Stark, I'm counting on it." 

Tony Stark spun in the rolling stool, a circle within a circle, finger tossing images around and around left then right then back. Bright then dark flashing across his body, numbers and names, buildings, headlines, always coming back to the grainy tones of the early days, back to the images of Barnes.  
"Piece of shit. Standing here in my home, bargaining for the life of your - friend. Who lied to me."

Gaze caught by one image that spun past him, not noticed before now, his hand found it to pull back and sit direct in front of him. Eyes closed to hold onto his emotions, anxiety gripping his chest, both hands flat palmed on the counter, anger winning out. The book uncovered fist slamming hard into a black star sitting in the center of the red leather, quick gesture to tear it apart aborted, instead hurled far across the lab through his mother's hovering picture. 

Clear skies dotted with stars, bright points over the expanse of the forest surrounding the airport, full moon spilling its softness across the darkened quinjet, sitting unattended on the tarmac, an open invitation.

Outside world looking in at Steve Rogers saw the picture of composure, decisive, strong, the "No, you move," man. Captain America, Nomad, whatever title they wanted to hang around his neck, none of it actually mattered in the end, all that ever mattered was Bucky.

Rapid-fire images, clicking through his mind, all Bucky; defiant, hurt, lost in the throes of their coming, features resolute and impassive on the grainy last evidence of his plan, the security camera footage. Uncertainty an unfamiliar companion, anxiety cutting breaths shallow, sending tightness across his shoulders, Steve stood arms crossed, watching and waiting in the darkness. Eyes slipping cautious to the shield, nested on the front of the bike, shadowed, red star a barely there outline.

"No sign of him from up here." Sam's circling update crackled in his ear.

Natasha's low whisper from the quinjet, "Nothing on board here."

The vibration of his phone startling his thoughts, the hot flush of hope, Steve fumbled it from his pocket. His answer sounding terser than he wanted, "Where are you?"

No words spoken, breath heard so close it felt warm, eyes closed aching for the sound he'd know anywhere. "God damn it, Buck, where are you?"

Bucky's answer, "Hello nice to talk to you too, Steve."

Welcomed sarcasm filling his hearing, covering his worry with being pissed off, "Where are you?"

"On my way." Resignation clear.

Trying to keep his voice steady, hearing Bucky slipping away, "Where?"

A quiet, "Not there."

Steve, more desperate than angry, "Why did you call. If you're not coming here, you're leaving, why call, to do what, rub it in my face?"

"No. I can think of better things to rub in your face than taunting you."

The smirk in Bucky's voice tearing at Steve, fist clenching he started to pace. "Not funny.''

Bucky let the moment hang then added, "I need something."

Steve snapping, "Need something? What? Money? The shoebox? Keys to the jet? Clean underwear? You don't wear underwear. Remember?"

Bucky's laughter landing as a punch to Steve's gut, doubling him over, quick gasp of air to keep breathing. A sigh ending the laugh before whispering, "Needed to hear your voice."

Cupping his hand to the phone, an afterthought to pull the comm-link from his ear, Steve's desperate insistence, "Come home."

Breath capturing itself, holding tight to his emotions, "Can't do that."

Steve pacing towards the bike, hand gripping the shield, "God damn it, Buck, you gave me your word. You said it. I will not go without you."

Soft insistence, "I didn't say that."

"Don't tell me you forgot, this isn't a game or semantics, you said it. You lied to me." A glance up to see Natasha running towards him.

Bucky's answer gentle, "I didn't forget, I didn't lie. You weren't listening. What I said was; I won't go alone."

Steve shook his head, "What? What did you say?"

"Right." Bucky's words clear and precise, "Not alone."

"Stop it. Just fucking stop it." Steve paced hard and fast, hand raking through his hair, "That voice isn't someone, isn't going to protect you. That Voice isn't me. Besides you said it yourself, it's you, your voice in your head. So no it does not qualify as going with someone. Technicality, I know but you are going alone even if that Voice is blabbering away."

Bucky cut him off, "Wow and they call me the emotional one."

Steve dropped his head back, deep breath pulled in, gaze taking in the stars, "Please tell me this is all just a joke, you're pissed at me, you're over there behind the trailer, laughing your ass off. Fine, funny you got me."

He stayed head tilted back, Bucky's voice low spoken, clear and intimate in his hearing, faint rasp of fatigue, "I didn't lie to you. I gave my word, and I meant it, only I'm not going with you. It's not safe. I'm not gonna be alone, and it's not the Voice in my head."

Head dropping to his chest, Steve kicked at the dirt

pebbles skittering across the tarmac, "Okay I'll bite, who then? Who are you with?"

"Bite me, Rogers? Is that what you said? I'd like that, a lot." Bucky's laugh catching Steve's breath again before adding, "Can't tell you."

A sharp turn away from Natasha's eyes, he fake-raged into the phone, "You are the most stubborn, petulant, untrustworthy, jerk I've ever met."

Teasing words, "I've studied with the best."

"Hydra taught you how to be a jerk?" His hand fell to rest on the shield.

"No - You did."

"Asshole. Come home."

Loud sigh, Bucky pushed forward, "Look, I just wanted to tell you something can I do that without a fucking lecture?"

Conscious and careful, Steve's tracing finger followed the outline of the red star, "Sure. What the hell is written on that paper? It's not coordinates, an address? Code, that's it, right? Tasha already said it wasn't Russian."

Bucky interrupted, "Are we in the same conversation here? I just said I want to tell you something and you said, 'Sure.' Then started asking me questions that you know I won't answer."

Steve tucked his hand under his armpit, steadying his breathing, "Sorry, sorry. Right, what? What did you want to say?"

Bucky's voice cracking, their connection fading, "Look, Rogers, I, just need to tell you - I - I never thanked you for, you know, saving me."

Straining to hear, "What? Saved you? You'd do the same." Steve kept talking through the static, "I get the feeling you're doing that right now."

Words breaking up, Bucky's voice getting louder, shouting over the interference, "Okay, running out of time here, gotta go. Just, right, don't do anything stupid. Like following me."

Static noises going dead, all sounds ending, Steve closed his eyes listening to the emptiness, "Buck? Bucky? Don't you fucking hang up. Damn it."

Phone tossed to the ground, the tightness in his chest unrelenting, Steve tore the shield from the bike, full body winding around, all of his strength sending it sailing far across the tarmac, a distant clang as it embedded into a tree. A close-held whisper only for himself, "Come back to me." 

Guarded steps echoed off the pale green walls of the hallway, the thump of boots as they connected rhythmic with the faded brown tiles stirring the residents on either side. Voices muffled at first, gaining strength with every footfall as he passed.

A cacophony of noise announcing his arrival. Steps coming to a halt in front of a rotund man in a long brown robe, no words being exchanged, moments passing expectant, a faint nod to signal his readiness. Cackling screams reverberating as the key slipped into the lock, eyes closed for a second to ward off the ache in his hearing, still plagued by the ringing from his final encounter with a stun prod.

Bucky took a very long deep breath before stepping over the threshold into the putrid green-walled cell. The red-gold of a sunrise spilling its hopeful light across the sparse interior, the occupant at the window, taking it in, not turning around, not acknowledging his presence. A fleeting second thought of how much of a bad idea this was, his body twitched his uncertainty, a quick decision to leave, enough of a tell for his prisoner to know of his change of heart. She turned to face him.

"It's about time." Low voice aged and creaking from disuse, whispering clear enough for his hearing across the room, "I knew you'd come for me, Soldat. You could never stay away."

An internal groan that he lost his advantage within the first three minutes of their reunion.


	14. Chapter 14 Mother

___"How the hell did she get that pristine hair knot without the full function of her hand? Look at her, not a strand out of place. You need to pick her brain for hair management pointers. Remember that darting glance in the mirror while you took a piss on the jet? The wood nymph look doesn't suit you, ask Stark."_

Bucky squelched his sigh, balanced his weight, and stood stiff-backed willing the outward evidence of his apprehension to settle into a rhythmic curl and uncurl of his toes; well hidden should his nemesis turn around, still effective for channeling his anxiety. Minutes passing, staring at the fluorescent green back of an ill-fitting jumpsuit, rolled cuffs soiled from the drag at her heels, black sleeve covering the arm he could see, a thumb looped through a ragged hole at the wrist.

 _"Green is not her color. How many times did she mention that? Sure, it was funny when you dumped her here; payback, green hallways, green walls, green haute couture. She's had four long months of abject nothingness to contemplate your use of color as revenge. The price for that will be pain."  
_  
Long slow breath in, purposeful silence fighting the Voice. Holding onto everything he wanted to say, planned on saying, the longing for the numbness of his old way of life creeping into his consciousness. Time slowing down, heart beating efficient, tense muscles settling into relaxed readiness, body memory of a finger poised on a trigger, hair-touch, missing the calm he remembered right before hell breaks loose.

Bucky's thoughts scrambling away from his history, allowing his gaze to slip discreet around her cell, thin mattress laid on cold concrete, the too-bright yellow of a bean bag chair crammed with disrespect into the corner, white porcelain glaring in the open. Single flat pillow balanced square on a threadbare blanket precisely folded and centered on the bed, admission of ingrained habits. Sparse conditions fitting her location, Ravencroft Institute for the Criminally Insane, conveniently abhorrent to her senses, the details not something he had planned but found karmic in its existence.

 _"Here's to the good old days, at least she's got that yellow blob to sit on. Not like the cells, she stuck you in, barren. You let her have clothing. Decent of you. Maybe she hasn't noticed; what goes around comes around. She's ninety by now, probably not that sharp anymore."_

Rehearsed words sitting waiting to be spoken. Six-hour flight to reach her, autopilot on at Stark's uncompromising insistence, still not enough time to act out every scenario. Counted steps pacing in the jet, practicing tone and inflection, add gestures, stand still; say nothing, spill his guts; rage at her inflicted cruelty for his lifetime with her, knowing she knew full well what she'd done to him. The ringing in his ear made worse by the flight, full reminder of her methods to control him, stun prod jammed to his neck, tearing the scream from his body. Her terse smile the last image he'd see as the shock took him down. Conscious decision to leave his weapons on the jet when he finally arrived, not that he'd need them to end her existence.

 _"Tick-tock, pal. Mother score one. Soldat; zero. You flinched in the first three minutes. Now you're staring at her back. Feels familiar, doesn't it? Waiting for her commands."_

Bucky holding back, unable to step off the edge of this abyss standing in the presence of his torturer. Tightness crossing his chest remembering Steve's possessive hold lying in their bed, fingers caught in his hair, pulling to make their eyes meet his look intense even in the dark demanding his promise, "Don't ever go back to her. Swear to me, you won't go back." Giving his word, meaning it each time, shame heating his skin, finding himself staring at the Widow who helped create the Soldier. The echo of his broken promise filling his mind, "No more, I'm done with her."

Gut rumbling loud, reflexive thumb catching the hem of Steve's sweater, hiding the fingers pressed to his belly, willing away the disturbance. Quick thought searching for the last food he'd eaten, denying the stress of his choice to seek her help, wishing there was some other way. Dull ache of regret claiming his chest, spreading deep into his heart, thoughts running back to Steve, pushed behind the protective door, time and again escaping.

The whole plan nearly collapsing in the quinjet bay with Stark's caustic assessment, "My money, my fuel, my jet, my flight plan." The confrontation escalating, the two of them inches apart, Bucky refusing to tell his exact destination, feet planted, the zipper of his jacket near to snagging Stark's sweater, eyes locked, neither backing down. Angry insistence of working alone, need to know, too dangerous for all involved, none of it moving Stark's feet or his demands. Guards emerging from the shadows, not unexpected, surrounding their argument, seconds from hands on his body, Bucky relenting.

 _"Now that one has balls. Taking the air around you meant for the Captain. Sure of himself, like someone we know - not you. Pathetic you didn't toss him aside."_

Close-guarded shiver with the flash of that memory, catching his muttered retort, "Knock it off," before it spilled out within her hearing. Scattering thoughts searched for grounding, latching onto dark marks on the wall. A pattern of dots seven across in each row, attention pulled in without leaving the doorway, the method familiar, blood used to mark the passage of days. Hot flush across pale skin at the irony of her accounting, faded memories still real and present of his earliest time with Hydra, counting down his life, blood marks across a wall, starting the day they showed him Steve's death. Grief punished by her hand.

 _"You didn't seem to mind the alternate Captain they provided to drag you from the brink of self-destruction. Quite the happy distraction until it wasn't. Gutting him; impressive. Not so impressive; letting your guard down."_

Rasped Russian words spoken within reach of his arm, "Are you in disguise? A student perhaps? Trying to blend in with the pathetic sheep of society? If that is your goal, you've failed. You're a mess." _  
"Mother: Two. Soldat: Zero."_

Her move across the cell quick and soundless, a reflection of her training, a Widow now and always. Bucky didn't flinch. A deliberate, measured turn of his head to look down his chest at the woman staring up at him. Her features burned into his memory. Gray hair turned white, the weeks in captivity showing within the furrows of her face, cheeks hollowed more, skin pale, lips pressed as he remembered, a thin line of disapproval. Right hand hidden, tucked deep in her pocket, split-second glance, a knowing look shared between them, an injury he inflicted. Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, agent of Hydra, the creator and guardian of the words drilled into his brain, stood staring up at him, the top of her head not reaching his armpit.

Her gaze unwavering, "Sixteen weeks. Far beyond protocol," tsk'd disapproval made more evident in the spit of her Cyrillic words, "A challenge to regroup with our superiors. They will have assumed our capture or death. We will need passports, transportation, money." A pause to run a slow critical eye down his body, a two-finger pluck at her jumpsuit, adding, "Clothing more suitable to our respective roles."

 _"Soldat, you are doing so well. All that rehearsing on the jet, sitting, standing, fist clenched, unclenched. I especially liked the casual weight swung onto one hip, body language relaxed and yet still threatening, classic Winter Soldier. At some point, you're going to have to use words here."_

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek the bitter taste of blood a distraction from the Voice's indictment, desperate measure to hold the tremors at bay. Frozen in place, legs too heavy to move, a faint tilt of his head to study her closer, fleeting thought wondering how this bird-like woman held him prisoner for all those years. A frown at the Voice's reminder.

 _"Stun prod, mind wipes, torture, manipulation, trigger words, psychological condition..."_

Sokolov snapping, "Stop it. You're staring. You forget your place, Soldat."

The force of her tone shaking his attention, eyes darting away, three seconds counting, hard forcing himself to bring his gaze back to challenge her.

 _"Mother: Three. Soldat: Zero."_

Pushing down the doubts about his plan creeping across his mind, bringing sweat to his skin, the slippery slope of being in her presence, desperate to not fall back under her control. Quick retreat to find Steve, hidden away, metal fingers reaching reflexive for the skin of his neck, his bite fading too soon, still tender with pressure, pinched hard in the moment, forcing the bruise back into existence. Holding tight to the memory of Steve's mouth claiming his flesh.

Thin finger pointing, coming close to his cherished mark, "What is this?" Words spoken with less anger than ownership, demanding an accounting of how her possession came to be touched in ways she'd never allow.

Bucky watching her hand moving towards him, unable to make his body back away, voice staying hidden, his mind telling him to move, step away, grab her wrist, something to show he wasn't her property. Not fighting her slap of his hand from the caress of his own skin, her expression changing from questioning to jealous. Finger tracing the bruised evidence of Steve's mouth, soft then firm then digging to pinch deep into this throat.

"Don't." Bucky's one word, guttural growl in English, harsh and loud and certain. A moment of winning as she jerked her hand back, a startle racing across her features long enough for him to catch a glimpse before scurrying behind her facade of control.

 _"Finally on the scoreboard. Mother three; Soldat one."_

No apprehensive steps back, Sokolov remained inches from his chest, bold staring up into his

face, a virtual gauntlet thrown down, holding firm to her Russian, "How dare you. Speaking in that tone. Speaking to me at all. You are an unruly child gone too long without proper discipline."

 _"She has never been wrong about that."_

Involuntary shake of his head, Bucky found his own voice, hesitant at first, stronger with each uttered declaration, his equally as stubborn holding to English, "She - you, may be right about that, but we, you, are not my handler any longer. A child? So be it. Needing discipline? Without a doubt." He leaned closer to her ear, tense words, "Not. Yours. I don't answer to you any longer."

 _"Nice speech, not what you had planned but..."_

Groaned sigh, hand tugging through his hair, frustration moving his body twisting away, quick pace side to side, "Butt out. Just, really butt out." Catching his words too late. A stumbled landing full body pressed to the wall, palms flat, regret for engaging out loud with the Voice in front of her.

Sokolov's words more mocking than kind, "Still talking to yourself, I see. You sound like a fool."

Bucky rolled his forehead against the plaster, it's coolness edging down the ache across his temple. One finger tapping in sets of three, eyes closing for longer than he wanted to allow, steadying his breathing, he spoke without moving, "You owe me."

"I owe you nothing," hard conviction without hesitation.

Slow roll around to face her, knees bent, feet bracing, his back pressed to the wall taking his fatigue. Gaze studying his boots, determined to face her, a slow rise of his eyes to connect defiant, "You. Owe. Me."

The old woman returning his stare, taking him in. Bucky watching her assessment ticking past, her thoughts well hidden, visible to his skill, the two measuring one another. His deliberate stare not faltering. A faint raise of her chin, "You've been too long away from order, Soldat." Her good hand waving dismissive, "I owe you nothing," but her eyes shifted away from him.

Drawn in by her shift, he followed her gaze out the window, the sun full in the sky, bright reflection off the endless expanse of snow, brick wall surrounding her prison.

 _"Right up there with the color choice. Snow. You remember her tirades about the cold, Siberia, how she'd rather be in Paris. You're going to have to sleep with one eye open on this mission. She's likely to slit your throat otherwise."_

Bucky's head fell back, his gaze wandering beyond the window's bars, thoughts drifting to home. A muttered whisper for himself, "When will these meds kick in?" Eyes closing, fatigue washing over, an aching try to find a way to go home, picturing a rush to Steve, begging forgiveness, missing the comfort of their bed already.

Regret interrupted by Sokolov's voice. "You're a fool, Soldat. I saved you."

"What?" Bucky didn't open his eyes.

"I said. I saved you. You were dying. Starving yourself to death over the loss of the Captain. I saved you. You should be grateful instead of treating me like some insane criminal. I saved you." All of her words spoken towards the window, body straight and not moving, hands tucked forceful in her pockets.

Bucky opened his eyes to stare at the back of her head, "Saved me?" A push away from the wall, darting steps closer veering off when he brushed her back, "Saved me from what?" Pacing erratic, hand dragging through his hair, voice cracking, "From death? That would have been a gift." Steps halting behind her closer than he'd ever dared in their time together, metal fingers ghosting the nape of her neck, rational thought warning restraint, rage wanting revenge, their history keeping him in check.

His cutting words, "Dying would have been a gift instead of what you and Hydra did to me," pulling a smile from her that he couldn't see.

Bright reflection off the snow-covered landscape lightening the cell, spilling across their bodies, she spoke towards the window, leaning back near to press against his chest, daring him to touch her, she spoke with disdain, "I kept you alive. You wouldn't be here now, no chance at your pathetic redemption, no youthful life beyond your years." She turned to look up into his face, hand light placed on his jacket, ignoring the fist that hovering at her neck, "That alone is my gift to you."

"Gift?" His laugh catching in his throat, "You think what you did to me is a gift? You treated me like an animal."

"A fine-tuned weapon, Soldat. Something to be proud of, a glorious masterpiece." A tilted head assessment of his hand inches from her throat, fingers daring to slide firm towards his shoulder claiming his body, features attempting kindness, "Look at us. Same age you and I, remember?" Her thin smile, not something he'd seen except in the Red Room or when she'd hurt him, "Same age when we met in the beginning." Tenuous reach to caress, brushing light across his cheek, "Time has been kind to you," thumb flirting with the patch of his lip still carrying the memory of Steve's pulling bite.

Seconds feeling like minutes, frozen in place allowing her touch, memory of Steve's mouth pressed to his lips, her finger's caress of Steve's mark jarring his body, he jerked his head from her hand, "Enough." Staggered steps back, metal hand raised and pointing, marking the space between them an arm's length away, he backed against the wall, "No more."

 _"Score one for setting limits. Lose one for that less than graceful stumble into the wall. You should have shoved her. Net: Zero."_

Heartbeats passing, her softness turning hard, tucking away any hint of what she may have felt once for the Soldier, loathing in her tone, "Some things never change I see." Bold steps to approach him, pushing aside his outstretched hand, "Fighting skills beyond all others, our gift to you. Forever youthful, our gift to you, changing the world, our gift to you." Deliberate pause holding captive his attention, "Your Captain. Once lost now found, lovers again, from the look of your skin." A fist rapped to her chest, resentment spilling into her words, "I made that possible. Keeping you alive. Whole and young so he would find you attractive." Single finger slipping beneath his jacket, caught up in the knit of Steve's sweater, her angry pull moving the fabric against his skin, "Back in his arms again, yes?"

Slowed responses, staring at her hand touching his body, Bucky letting it happen, mind going numb with memories rushing forward, conditioned to allow her touch, taking what she wanted. Not fighting or denying. Nausea rising watching her hand twist in Steve's sweater, wrapping it tight around her wrist, pressure pulling his body forward, muscles going weak, hating himself for letting it happen.

Pulling in a breath, a stuttered whisper, "Stop it," not moving her hand or her stance, a louder "No more," his protest not changing her drag on his clothing. Arms hanging too heavy to move, Bucky fighting with his past, wanting to tear her hand from touching him, shove her aside. Frightened that he'd let her go this far, pulling at his body, her fingers wrapping possessive in his one tangible connection to Steve.

Thoughts falling back to Steve, grasping at the memories, hand in his hair, his words echoing "Not letting go, never letting go," body weight heavy lying on top of him, mind shaking loose giving power to his voice, "Take your fucking hands off of me."

Sokolov's pull cut short, surprise chasing across her face, enough for him to see it before hiding behind her facade. Split second before metal fingers found her wrist she dropped her hold on the sweater, full-force punch to the center of his chest, unexpected rocking his balance, hissing, "You have him because of me."

Seconds hanging silent, Bucky fighting to control the Voice's snarking answer, knowing full well what it would say, a tremor free-flowing unable to hide it any longer. His whisper forced, as heartfelt as he could make it, "And for that, I am grateful."

Inches separating them, closer than he'd ever stood near her when he had a choice to leave. Bucky holding his stare locking with hers, tension rolling his gut, willing his stomach to stay quiet. Scrambling thoughts desperate searching for the lines he had rehearsed, garbled words and half sentences floating through his memory, dragging the panic forward.

Sokolov taking the small victory, his admission of owing her his second chance with Steve, pressing her advantage, her sarcasm clear to Bucky despite her Russian words, "What do I owe you, Soldat? If you didn't come here to resume our relationship. Not returning to your home with us, not here to watch the sunrise, no vodka as a gift? Tell me what could I possibly owe you?"

 _"How does she win even when she's losing? A skill you should have learned from her. Excellent setting of limits. Score both sides. Mother: Four. Soldat: Two."_

His foot slipping sideways, back still pressing to the wall, a start to move away from her caught short by his fledgling grip on his agency, conscious decision to make her move instead, "Take a step back, two steps actually, at least two steps away from me." A hard-fought effort to project firmness, gaze not faltering, he pointed at a spot a few feet into the cell.

Sokolov's eyes narrowing a moment, taking him in, a wry smile flirting with her lips, she complied with exaggerated strides, counting aloud, "One and two." A turn to face him. "What else do I owe you?"

The ache in his chest easing, breath flowing out, Bucky moving to stand weigh swung balanced towards one hip, his body blocking the doorway, building on his momentum, "No more Russian. You know English. Use it."

Shrugging, her switch to English faltering and thick, "Fine. I will try to..."

"Stop it." His bark cutting her off.

Another shrug and smile, her amusement not sincere, "Continue, Soldat or should I say, Soldier? What else must I do for you?"

Bucky shifting his weight, finding the words he'd rehearsed, deep breath diving in, "I need to go back. To Russia. There are things, people I remember, shit you put in my head. Things that happened, I want to fix them, not fix," shaking his head, close to talking to himself, gaze wandering across green walls, "I can't fix any of this. I want to stop it from happening anymore."

"A mission? Intriguing. Independent thought, not always a good thing. Will this be like Boston?" Sokolov's tone not as cutting or disbelieving.

"No," Hand running through his hair, "Yes. I mean, I don't know." A quick glance towards her growing skeptical gaze. "You and I, no one else."

 _"Lose of a point for piss-poor planning. Mother: Four. Soldat: One."_

Her faint tone of sarcasm returning, "The two of us? Going against whom? Hydra is scattered. Who is your target?"

Anxiety driving his movements, shifting weight foot to foot, hand carding hair, gaze wandering from her face, glancing across the marks on the wall, a second on the mattress, cold cell reminding him of his days under Hydra's control. Body settling still wide-stance, eyes focused on the snow-covered landscape he muttered near to inaudible, "The Architect," held breath waiting for what he knew she'd say.

Her breath a hissing pull, eyes widening a split second, the veil lifting and falling back into place as a curtain on a cold breeze. Staring at him for seconds too long, smoothing hair not out of place. Cold answer, "You really are insane. Too bad. You're still quite the specimen." Abrupt turn to cross towards the window, hand gripping a bar, her move a derisive dismissal.

Her assessment not unexpected, he scrambled to counter, "Insane? Highly possible. Doesn't matter. You owe me this."

Sokolov spun back to face him, "Why would I do this? Why risk my life for your pathetic, suicide mission?"

Bucky's anxious steps forward, halting at half the distance, desperate attempt to persuade her, "Because it will be glorious. Your word, the one you said to me a thousand fucking times. Glorious. I'm giving you your choice, your chance." Pulling in a breath, not wanting to give life to what he thought would happen, knowing the truth of what he was proposing, "Die glorious with me. Or die here slow and cold and forgotten, eating bread and beans and staring at these four putrid green walls for the few years you might have left. Listening to the echoes of your cellmates, watching the snow melt." A pause to give weight to what he planned to say next, knowing it would cut her, "Forever wondering where I am. Who I'm fucking. Long nights in the dark and cold imagining me and - the Captain. You stuck here. Alone and cold and surrounded by green."

The anger crossing her face not hidden, red flush to her skin, her steps a rush to confront him, "You destroyed the hand that fed you," the mangled flesh of her right hand slapping hard onto his chest.

Bucky caught her wrist with metal fingers, dragging her closer, a lean to grit his words near her face, "You destroyed my life."

"I glorified your life," Her spitting answer back, tugging to free the hand crushed by his grip four months earlier, the night they faced off, Bucky saving Steve from her torture.

Metal fingers not letting go, his voice brittle and cracking, "I killed for you. Against my will. That isn't glory. I am condemned forever because of you."

Her good hand prying at metal fingers, pulling to free herself from his grip, "The children of Hydra were obedient because of you. Fear and pain, Soldat, you know how this works. You are the bringer of their obedience."

"Nightmares. I am the bringer of nightmares." Shaking her hard enough to unbalance her feet, breath catching the sob before she could hear it, "My nights and days are consumed with their ghosts. Thanks to you."

Sokolov hung by her wrist tight held in his fist, toes just touching the floor, features defiant, dark eyes glaring. Anger flashing too long of a time for a Widow, a slow deep breath reining herself in, pulling back her emotions, the cold mask returning, "You take medications don't you? That should help with those nightmares. Although they don't seem to help with that Voice in your head. Pity your Captain can't save you from yourself."

 _"Mother six. Scoring two points this round. One for pissing you off enough to put your hands on her and the second for the snark about the meds. And the Captain. So correction, three points Mother. Total seven. Soldat remains at one."_

Her words cutting enough, the Voice salt in the wound, internal counting three sets of three, before blurting "Fuck you," and releasing his hold on her wrist, a turn to leave the cell, he paused at the threshold.

Sokolov stumbling back, rubbing her wrist, shoulder braced to the wall, no words or looks passing between them, tension thick and heavy, shared counting of their heartbeats. Time passing expectant and empty broken by her voice soft muttering "If we are to work together you must do something for me."

Slow half turn of his body, head tilting to pull in her words, hair falling to cover his cheek, he sighed, "Sure, let's hear it. No promises though."

A push from the wall to stand straight, right hand tucked into her pocket, quick check of her hair for neatness, "If we are to work together. I wish to have chocolate."

Bucky turned, his eying of her suspicious, "Okay. I think we can find chocolate."

Slow steps to approach him, "Good. And vodka."

Purposeful shake of his head, "I'll pass on that. But sure I guess so."

A chin-up, confident stride to end standing next to him, eyes sharp and expectant watching the hall beyond her cell, "And blini, I would like blini."

 _"You are so fucked Soldat. She has you by the balls. Mother: Eight. Soldat: One."_

Bucky sucked in a long deep breath, rolling his eyes and his head, a tight-lipped answer, "O-kay. Sure. Anything else?"

Quick nod without looking at him, "Yes. A gun."

Answer spoken towards the hallway, "No. Absolutely and categorically no."

Sokolov nodding, her gaze fixed on the hall, "Fine. As expected. A good move, Soldat. One last thing."

Bucky staring down at the top of her head, studying the neatness of her hair knot, "No more things."

Insistent as she stepped past the threshold not looking at the monk standing guard, or glancing back at him, "You must control your language. It is a vulgar, disgusting spewing of filth that I find unacceptable."

His answer quick and hot, "Or what? You'll do what? Don't forget. No stun prod, Mo..."

"Yes." Her answer just as quick. Gaze taking in the long empty hallway leading to her freedom, a pointed finger towards his inertia in the doorway, "Yes, you will resume calling me Mother."

Biting the lip he tugging hard into his mouth, "The hell I will."

A tilt of her head to free the tightness in her neck, shoulders rolling back, eyes sharp focused on the end of her internment, she reiterated, "Language, Soldat, language," as she took her first steps away from the overwhelming green of her world.

Bucky's eyes narrowing, tight jaw response, still stuck in the doorway, "Fuck language."

Steps confident and certain, Gieta Sokolov marching down the hall unapologetic and not acknowledging the catcalls from her cellmates, bouncing side to side, swirling through the air passing each locked door, "Fuck –- language - Soldat."

 _"Final score. Mother:_ _Ei_ _ght. Soldat: One._ _First Match_ _to Mother."_

A rush to follow her into the hall, caught off guard by her control, pacing out his frustration, his complaint starting as a mutter, building to a shout, voice squeaking and rasping on every other word, "Fuck language. Fuck the Voice in my head. Fuck working together, we are not working together. Fuck you." Shaking his head, desperate attempt to shake loose the ringing as the inmates sent up a cackling mock of his epithets. A final relenting muttering, "Fuck you really," he ran down the hall to catch up with her.

 _"This is going much better than planned. Thirty minutes into this family reunion and we are all still alive."  
_


	15. Chapter 15 Roles Reversed

Thoughts racing forward and back, panic scattering logic, ideas forming nebulous and fragile, tossed aside with every tic of a new detail swimming up from his memories. Plans of approach examined and discarded time and again, clock ticking in the back of his brain. Twenty-four hours since leaving Stark's presence, his hope for a stealth entrance rapidly slipping away with every option that danced across his mind to fall unacceptable from his silent planning.

Bucky sat in the pilot's seat of the jet, hands on the controls, more for show than being practical, not wanting Sokolov to know he remained at the mercy of Stark's autopilot. A wry smile hid from her eye, for the lie about his itinerary, sure that Stark knew full well he lied, a fleeting wonder what his counter move would be, Bucky not caring in the end.

 _ _"Only the mission matters, Soldat. Keep moving forward, dragging them with you, bleeding, exhausted, hanging from your body, taking you down, until there are no more steps to be taken."__

"Well, good morning to you too," Bucky muttering aloud, quick afterthought to glance towards his companion, head bowed to her chest, seemingly asleep, strapped into a jump-seat near enough to see her movements, not close enough to make his neck hair stand on end. Seconds spent on watching her, feet not meeting the floor, clothing now as he had remembered before he imprisoned her, nondescript and muted colors, more threadbare than she would have worn years before.

A faint shiver for his recollection of strapping her in, their terse exchange replaying.

"I cannot do this buckle you have to help with it." Sokolov pulling the straps in frustration.

Bucky standing back to the bulkhead, clear across the cabin, "No. I am not touching you. Do it yourself. You're a damn Widow, you can kill people with your toes. No doubt you can buckle a seat-belt by yourself."

The argument volleying back and forth, spiraling down into childish tit-for-tat, her demonstrating the hand that he maimed, he ranting about the Voice in his head. The stalemate keeping them grounded for fifteen minutes longer than he'd planned.

 _ _"Stark will find your lifeless body here in the Tundra at this rate of speed. Better figure out how to work with her. Oh and Round Two starts with Mother: One. Soldat: Zero."__

Exhausted compromise finally reached, Sokolov hands behind her head, eyes averted, feet tucked tight below her seat, Bucky two finger latching the seat-belt to step quickly away as soon as he was done.

Deep breath and a sigh, Bucky rolling his shoulders, decision made to pace the cabin, warding off his fatigue trying to remember the last time he slept, the quiet hum of the jet taking its toll. Steps down and back counting internal, thoughts drifting to Steve, fingers searching for comfort in the body marks left by his mouth, hand twisting in his sweater, quick glances towards the Widow checking her status. Slow building ache of missing him, mind hearing echoes of his voice, soft words whispered close in their bed, angry shout as he hung up the phone; tone, and temper not important anything that would take the edge from his regret.

Cold air creeping into his awareness, stiffness embracing his bones, taking the warmth from his skin, ragged breath at the remembrance of the heat of Steve's body, wrapping around him tight holding through the dreams and pain. Fighting the wish to go home, hoping his bargain with Stark would play out. Steve remaining safe. Stark's tenacity working in his favor, counting on his need for justice to save him from the fate of his mission.

Fatigue and the cold taking its toll, Bucky dropped in a seat as far from the Widow as space would allow. Shoulders settling against the hard back, body turned from her view, flesh hand tucked between his legs, seeking body warmth, mind slipping too easy to the close-protected dare of imagining it was Steve's hand.

 _ _"Probably not your best idea, napping while the Widow is fake sleeping. Not to mention pretending that's Steve cupping your balls. Mother's going to score big on this one."__

A muttered, "Knock it off," feet pulled up, body curling inward, eyes closing, Bucky embraced the drifting off, soft repeating, "Three seconds, just three seconds."

Steve taking solace in the soft material stretching across his chest, heart beating close against the fabric lying beneath his uniform. Bucky's T-shirt fitting too tight made tighter still by his purposeful deep inhaling breaths, desperate imagining of their bodies pressing skin-to-skin. Serum enhancing all of his senses, flesh prickling warm at Bucky's ghosted touch, his scent lingering on fingers, beard and clothes. Eyes closed allowance of sensations to wash over him, forced open to face the engulfing green of the Widow's empty cell.

Natasha's whisper near his side, "I'm glad he told you about this place."

"He did." Answer short and personal, gaze taking in the sparse surroundings, porcelain to chair to mattress, settling on the blood-marked calendar on the wall. "She knew he'd come for her. Didn't she?"

"Not that simple," a move to see his face, hand hovering over his arm, not touching, his gaze staying on the wall, "He's had years of conditioning, a bond gets created, hard to fight that kind of thing."

"We have a bond. Our bond is stronger." Words quiet and firm, uncertainty revealed in the clenching of his jaw, "I thought. Maybe I'm wrong?"

Natasha slipping past him, "You're not wrong, Steve. It is stronger than this," steps ending to face the marks on the wall.

"Why her and not me then?" Reticent standing in the doorway, unwilling to enter the Widow's space.

"He needs her." She turned to face him, her features caring despite the efficient assessment.

Steve forcing his steps across the threshold, senses taking it in, the old woman's scent, her presence lingering fresh and raw and bitter. Flush of reddened tightness chasing across his skin, hard-hit with the realization that Bucky stood in this very room hours earlier, free choice to return, willingly giving himself back to his handler. Logic falling aside, deep breath pulled in, fleeting thought that he could feel him, taste his mouth, find the scent of his skin hiding beneath the staleness of her cell.

Slight stumble on nothing, head spinning not a common event, Steve settled his unnerving with a hand grasping a bar on the window. Words spoken soft, private and aching, "I thought he needed me."

Natasha answering anyway, "Not that kind of need."

Steve fighting to clear his thinking, shift of focus to what lay beyond the window, he studied the harsh reality of Sokolov's world; barren yard below, red brick wall looming, capped with dark towers, threatening vast expanse of never-ending whiteness. A confession repeated without looking at Natasha, "I told him I was jealous," wry laugh cut short, "Now this. He runs to her. I made this happen."

"We've been over this. Not true. He's protecting you." Natasha crossed to stand beside him, both watching the sun glint across the icy landscape. "You said he's going after someone called the Architect. He can't, his role in Hydra, his past, he can't just walk in there. As much as you boys want to charge head-first, bullets be damned, he knows that will only get him killed. He needs her to accomplish his mission. He's using her. She's his way in." She turned to look up at him, a reach to tuck loose falling hair behind his ear, "You're thinking with your heart. Gonna have to let that go if we're going to help him."

Sam's arrival heralded by the echoing calls in the hallway, pulling their attention towards the door, "Wow, so Barnes really is the asshole I thought he was. The Raft is Cancun compared to this place." Stepping into the cell, quick glance around, a nod towards Natasha and Steve, "Fury's aircraft are accounted for, no one in a hundred mile radius of us is missing anything that could get him this far." His hesitant pulled in breath left hanging.

"And?" Steve reading his pause.

Sharp shake of his head, reluctance evident, Sam finished his report, "Except for the Avengers Facility. A jet was given emergency clearance a few hours after Barnes disappeared. Could be a big coincidence, maybe not. If he stole a jet from Stark, I've got a whole new level of respect for him." Quick point at Natasha to clarify, "Do not tell him I said that."

Steve's thoughts playing out across his body, chin raised, shoulders settling back, surprise to worry to anger chasing across his features; his reaction kept physical, hiding the rush of worry that settled in his mind.

Natasha offering a guess at what he was thinking, "He stole a jet from Stark. Or - Stark helped him. Why?"

Steve turned to stare at the snowy landscape, both hands grasping the bars, forehead laid between his hands, cold metal soothing the not-familiar ache in his head. A ploy to hide his face, keeping the rush of emotion to himself, thoughts racing to imagine the scene, Bucky facing Stark alone. Anxious replaying of their last encounter, Bucky terrified on his knees, Stark's angry shake of his body, the glow of the thrustor hot on his skin. Grateful for Bucky's call, confirming he was still free, worry for what he'd done, what price he might be paying for his chance to walk away.

His answer finally muttered, "I don't know. But I am going to find out." Quick turn to cross the cell, his stride carrying him pissed off and determined out the door, down the hall, heading for the jet and a call to Tony Stark.

Bucky's sleep brought the dead most nights, voiceless companions, not a threat or frightening, more harbingers of his guilt, cutting a hole in his heart, pulling him from their bed to wander the house silently checking locks three plus three.

Nightmares, his companion in the deepest of sleep, muscles slack in relaxation, mind drifting away, false sense of safety, thoughts dropping his guard. The dreams roaring into existence tearing his limbs from the grip of Steve's possessive arms, driving the screams that stole his voice raw.

Fitful sleep, the catnaps of a mission or exhaustion, brought him the not long ago memory of Steve's torture at the mercy of the Widow. Lulling sounds of the jet falling into the background, bright light of the sky slipping aside for the darkness of his mind's eye. Recollection of that shadowed prison, Steve strapped in a chair, legs and arms splayed out, thigh fractured, bone protruding, dripping red into a pool that crawled across the floor engulfing his feet as he stood frozen still, as dreams will demand.

Few seconds of rest bringing him back to that night, body moving slow-motion, shield heavy in his hand, muddled sounds and thoughts and movements. Head lolling awkward to his right, mind's eye not clearly seeing, memory filling in the image; Steve's broken body immobile at the mercy of the Widow and her companion. Two figures hovering, one menacing tall, Bucky's Red Room history returned for vengeance, red-faced laughter as the man twisted Steve's leg, his screams echoing in the room, forever embedded in Bucky's heart.

His reach to free Steve thwarted by the dream, the chair moving elusive, always an inch beyond his fingers. Body twitching erratic desperate attempts to touch him, rescue him. Mouth forming words, only guttural sounds stumbling out, rising frustration shaking his head, fingers jumping, some part of his brain telling it's a dream, fighting to wake, dragged back down to replay what the Widow did to them.

Sokolov's methods psychological, honed sharp and perfected, her goal to tear them apart. Bucky standing witness. Sepia-toned pictures of his enslavement by Hydra playing out larger than life, his sins projected on the walls of Steve's cell. Death counts recorded, features impassive, his true-self hiding in the void of his eyes. Bucky's naked body, hands caressing, not Steve's hands, staccato flashes of his darkest shame projected for Steve's captive entertainment. Bucky too ashamed to bring it up once all was said and done. Steve too protective to ever mention it. The unspoken sitting between them still.

His dreamscape shifting, the Widow appearing, stun prod in hand, prim-dressed, thin smile, gliding to stop at his feet, right hand on the shield trying to take it, metal fingers covering frail bones, his grip tightening down. Her smile defiant, she drove her weapon into his neck, her voice clear speaking the trigger words, his mind fighting her control, seconds passing suspended facing one another.

Body struggling against the dream's hold, cold sweat breaking across his chest, whined cry knowing what was coming, fighting to wake before reliving that moment. Sleep not letting him go, the stun prod firing, tearing blinding whiteness through his vision, pain searing his nerves; metal fingers vaguely sensing the breaking of her bones, the jolting memory throwing his body convulsing to the floor.

"Pasha, wake up, you're dreaming." Sokolov's voice wafting through the pain. "Pasha? Wake up."

 _ _"Soldat. Get your head out of that dream and wake the hell up. She's about to put her hands on you."__

"Shit." Bucky scrambling awkward, hands and feet moving, scooting backward across the floor, away from her voice, her hand reaching out. He pointed a warning when his shoulders crashed into the bulkhead. "Don't touch me. Stay right there."

The Widow kneeling where he fell, both hands cupped in her lap, "You were dreaming, Pasha."

Head shaking, catching his breath, shedding the grogginess of sleep, a half-distracted ask, "What? What did you call me?"

Her tone emphatic falling to possessive, "Pasha. It's our name."

Rubbing his neck, shrugging his muscles free of their stiffness, "The hell it is. Don't call me that. That is not my name."

Her demureness exaggerated, "It is what I've always called you. Don't you remember?"

Bucky shook his head again, hard swallow finding his words, trying to shed her ownership, "I remember a lot. More than I want to remember so yeah, I remember you using that name." A bite to his lip, tongue sliding in search of a fading mark left by Steve, "I'm telling you to stop it."

Confusion evident on her face, "But, it's ours. Since the beginning of our time together."

Bucky sitting legs spread wide, attention narrowing down, eyes connecting with the Widow's, his gritted question, "Our time together?"

"Yes, my child. That is the name I gave you." Her smile less menacing than he recalled, a hint of her memories faltering.

Bucky uncertain of what he was seeing, not trusting anything she had to say. Feet drawing up, knees close to his chest, brushing the hair from his face, "I am not your fucking child, that is not my fu... damn name. Enough. It is not my name, and you know it."

Fleeting sadness taking her features, another look not fitting her history, slow shake of her head, "What should I call you then. If not that." Her fingers picking at a loose thread on her jacket, lost in thought before asking, "Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky dropped his head back to thump against the wall, eyes closed answer, "No. Not that. My name is Bucky," Waving his hand dismissive, eyes opening and wary, "Nevermind, not that. Barnes. No, just, I don't know."

Scrambling to his feet, pacing erratic, stretching his back, nervous energy driving his body to move, "Not that. Call me, just call me - Shit."

"Shit? I should call you Shit?" Still kneeling, head tilting a tell of her confusion, her gaze following his boots.

The tone of her question close to genuine, catching him off-guard, blurted laugh spontaneous, pulled back as soon as it happened, retreating to a stern, "Hilarious."

Bucky pulled in a long breath searching for an answer, "If you have to talk to me, to call me a name," pacing past her, hard pulling the tangled scrunchie from his hair, "You should call me," hesitant pause, sigh of frustration, finally settling reluctant and resolute, "Soldat. Call me soldier."

His steps halting behind her, gaze studying the frail figure appearing smaller than he could ever recall. Bitter guard crumbling to soften, hard to recognize the handler he remembered in the woman kneeling at his feet, sense of pity nudging to take space from his anger.

 _ _"You really are the fool she believes you to be. Mother: Two. Soldat: Zero."__

His voice falling low, "Soldat. That's all I am to you." Conscious effort to hide his own sadness, "A soldier. Nothing more."

Sokolov nodding emphatic, "Very well, Soldat it shall be." A pat of her knees ending the debate, her tone turning curious, her gaze scanning the passenger bay, "Right. So, Soldat. Is there food on this jet? Or do you plan on us starving to death before we get to kill the Architect?"

Bucky taken aback, "Was that a joke?" A muttered, "I don't remember that about you."

"I have been told I have a wonderful sense of humor." A turn of her head to catch a glimpse of him.

Deep breath returning to the reality of their past, "I would not be the one telling you that."

She nodded, "No. You would not. We never spoke like this."

Bucky moving to retrieve his backpack, quick check for weapons before dumping the contents out on the floor in front of her. A hesitant step, thinking it through; a final giving in, he dropped to sit cross-legged, the pile of his belongings centered between them. Poking a metal finger through the contents, "Socks, T-shirts, single serving Frosted Flakes, a box of raisins and half a protein bar. That's it. I travel light."

Her disappointment evident in her tone and on her face, "This is inadequate resources. I taught you better than that."

A tilted head response tinged with his own sarcasm, "You starved me as I recall."

She deflected, "I fed you well at our last collaboration."

Sharp stop to the gathering of his clothing, sharper look at her face, "Collaboration? You kidnapped me and stuck me damn near naked in a cage. You chained my arm to a beam. You shocked me repeatedly with your favorite behavior modification tool. That's what you liked to call it, right? That is not my definition of collaboration."

Sokolov, chin up, staunch defiance, "You forget..."

Bucky cut her off, hard shoving his clothes in the backpack, "My place? No, you forget I'm not your possession anymore. That's my place, I get to decide if we collaborate. I get to decide what name I go by. I get to decide who eats the Frosted Flakes."

A deep breath, her scolding clear, "What I was about to say was, you forget - I freed you from the words in your mind. I put them there. I took them away."

His movement stopping, sitting quiet, breath held, teeth catching the skin of his cheek, gaze studying this woman kneeling a few feet away from him. Resentment fighting with uncertainty. Painful recollection of her efforts to desensitize his mind, undoing the words that she put there. Tested and proven by her own voice the night he saved Steve. Proof given she made good on her word to free him from their control.

Bucky muttered a begrudging, "You did." Not fully trusting her, never trusting her, adding, "Seems that way. Right now, seems like it. I hope so."

Quiet moment of mutual contemplation, taking stock of their tenuous agreement. Bucky studying the hardness still deep within her eyes, pushing aside the new-found glimpse of softness, not fool enough to let his guard down, despite the Voice's chiding.

She studying with equal suspicion, finding her place to settle in, watching and waiting. A Widow's most significant asset; patience.

Bucky mulling over his change in fortune, their roles slipping reversed, he taking control, her bowing to his wishes. A fleeting moment of satisfaction quick corrected by his own lecturing voice kept internal, "Don't be an idiot Barnes."

The Voice following suit.  
 _  
_ _ _"That's what she wants you to think. Once a Widow, always a Widow. Mother: Three. Soldat: Zero."__

"I kinda hate Stark. I mean, just have to throw that out there." Sam's muttered commentary broke the heavy aired silence once Steve and Tony ended their terse conversation. A shrug added as he leaned against the bulkhead serving to underscore his point, "He could've called you. Report that damn delinquent Barnes to the school principal."

"Not funny," Steve pulled in a deep breath, eyes closing to rehash what little he'd learned from calling Stark. Thoughts racing, forward and back, replaying their exchange, not learning much more than he already knew. Their argument over Skype, rapid-fire and hot, as palpable as if they were standing chest-to-chest.

Steve opening as soon as Stark's image appeared on the screen, "You gave him a jet."

Tony's quick retort, "Who?"

Equally as quick, "You know who."

"Oh, your friend. Barnes?" A nonchalant scratch of his head, "Yes, well he said he needed it for a worthy cause. He asked nicely."

Voice barely hiding his anger, "A suicide mission is a worthy cause?"

Stark meeting his anger with snark, "You're asking the wrong person to care."

Steve's jaw twitched seconds longer than Nat or Sam had ever seen.

Eyeing the twitch even through Skype, Tony offered, "I loaned it to him."

Seconds passing, Steve pressing, "Did he tell you where he was going?"

Stark's curt answer. "Yes."

Meeting his curtness, "And?"

Tony cocked his head, "No. He made me swear not to tell you."

"Funny. I doubt he made you do anything. Tell me anyway."

"No. That was part of the deal. No tattling." Stark pushed himself back, his face disappearing from the screen, only the glow of the arc in his chest remaining in the picture. Seconds passing before he leaned close again, features returning, a glimpse of concern, hinting genuine, "Look Rogers. For what it's worth. He's actually trying to protect you. That's what he said anyway."

Steve reaching reflexive for his hair, a brush from his face, quick echo of Bucky's fingers raking across his scalp, fight to focus on pushing Stark, "What does he have to give you in return. You didn't do this for free. He owes you something."

Tony sat up, back straight, palms flat on the table, words clipped and rapid, "My jet back. One piece, no scratches. Full tank of gas. Clean out the bins, no water bottles left behind. Now. Go home, Rogers. Your man doesn't want you with him." A sharp move of his hand to force the screen to go black.

Steve standing eyes closed, long slow breaths steadying, not inert or uncertain, making his plans internal, ticking through all of Bucky's clues. No answer when Steve pressed if the man was a Russian. White paper with numbers, Natasha's deciphering, one number certain, a postal code in the heart of Moscow, the others still a mystery. Steve's worst case scenario now proven, Bucky returning to the Widow, sworn heartfelt promise in the sanctuary of their bed, words intense and desperate, Bucky's rasping near tearful oath "Never going back to her," ringing now in Steve's hearing, chest tightening, gut turning, holding to the hope there was more to his plan.

Natasha's hand on his arm, stirring him from his thoughts, pulling him to look at her, "We've got the postal code, It's a start. I'll start scanning every piece of intel we can find, we know he's heading for Russia, we'll find him."

Sam adding from the pilot's seat, "We spend an inordinate amount of time looking for him. I'd say we should be pretty good at it by now."

Head pressed to the cold metal of the bulkhead, a foot rhythmic kicking sets of three against the storage below, Bucky furtive slipped his pills in his mouth, quick sip of the water he'd found. A glance over his shoulder to check on the Widow cross-legged on the floor eating the Frosted Flakes dry one by one.

 _ _"You clearly laid claim to those Flakes, she took them. You let her. Mother..."__

"Yeah, yeah, Mother four, Soldat zero. Give it a rest. I let her. She's old. I snagged the protein bar." Not hiding his conversation, not caring at this point. "Too tired to care."

Dull ache building in his chest spreading fiber to fiber, his heart searching for Steve, pulling his touch from his memory, body missing his heat. Bucky turning his back to the Widow, keeping his memories close, guarding irrational, her taking his mind for seventy years, his fear she could rob him of Steve all over again.

Eyes closing, fingers slipping to rake across his scalp, imagining Steve's hand tangled in his hair. Panic taking his gut, tongue searching his lips, the taste of him gone by. Memory struggling to find Steve's voice, clear a few hours earlier, fading with the sound of the jet and the chaotic plans of his mission. His need to hear his voice becoming all-consuming.

"Okay, one more call. Then that's it." Bucky muttered aloud, pulling the cell phone from his pocket. Faint tremor in his fingers, two hands to steady his dialing, held breath waiting for the ringing to flow, sharp click of Steve picking up.

"Buck?" Steve's worry mixed in with being pissed off, "You asshole."

Laughter uncontrolled, pulled together enough for Bucky to mutter, "Must be my new code name. How's it going?"

Craving the sound of Steve's voice, no matter the words, soaking in his frustration, Bucky let his words wash over his hearing, "What? How's it going?" Grateful to hear his sarcasm, "Tasha, Sam and I are bonding over chasing you, again." Caught short by his flash of dark pain, "Why her? You promised. You swore in our bed, your word, never go back to her. Why her?"

Bucky scrambling to deflect, "Wow. I can feel those green flecks in your eyes sparkling. I like it." Not able to hide the tremor in his words, "You're jealous? I never expected that."

"I am not jealous of her. I want to know why you went back to her?"

Hands cupping the phone, a glance to check on the Widow, Bucky whispering, "I need her to do this. Simple. She gets me in the door."

Steve's anger cutting, "Why Stark? Why go to him? What kind of deal did you make?"

Bucky letting seconds pass, a push away from the wall, anxious pacing, not wanting to lie, not wanting to tell him his truth, "He was kind enough to lend me his jet. I just need to get it back to him in one piece. That's it."

The challenge painful to hear, "Don't lie to me."

Bucky changing the subject, "You're in the jet, I can hear that damn rattle that Wilson never fixed. Something tells me you're trying to follow me."

Steve's pacing evident in the ebb and flow of his tone, footfalls distant behind his words, Bucky closing his eyes, steps pausing to drink in every whispered slip of material; his breath, and mood and inflection. Not caring about Steve's anger, faint smile at his irritation, drowning in the ache of wanting to be with him.

"Did you really think that I would go home and pine for you?" Steve raging on, "Sit around watching football waiting for you to drag your sorry ass back in the front door? You actually thought running off without me, I'd just kick back and wait for you to get home?"

Eyes stinging, fighting back his tears, quick glance at the Widow again, her gaze indirect, head tilted in listening, "No. Honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking." Voice dropping to a close-guarded whisper, desperate and pleading, "I just don't want him, anyone, to hurt you. No one. I have to keep you safe, somehow. Whatever it takes."

"Not this way."

"Listen, I was thinking," Bucky turning his back to Sokolov, pacing resumed, teeth pulling hard at his lip, fighting the tightness claiming his chest, logic washing away in a wave of emotion, "I was thinking about you." Breath catching, words blurted and choking, "You. Needing you. Damn it."

Steve commanding, "Where are you?"

Dragging his sleeve to his cheek, Bucky glancing at the Widow again, her eyes locking on his, quick tuck of his head to hide from her gaze, rushed whisper, "I've forgotten what day it is. When you asked me the last question, you know the question of the day. I can't remember when we did that last."

Steve jumping on his change in direction, "Two days. It's been two days. You owe me two answers."

Bucky absent muttering, "I used to be better at this, I'm not very good at this anymore. A mission of my own. I keep calling you."

"It's okay to need…"

"Need help?" Rasping laughter, "I definitely need help on a few levels."

Steve answered, "You finished my sentence."

Bucky's smirk clear in his voice, "That's not all I want to finish."

Soft laughter tearing at Bucky's heart, "God Buck, I'd love that. I would. What I was trying to say is, it's okay to need me. To let me help."

"I do need you. You know that right? Sure you do. So, back to the questions. Two? Are you sure? Are you lying to me, Stevie?"

"No never. Technically a new day, two questions."

"Okay trusting you." Metal fingers catching Steve's sweater, hanging too loose on his frame, a tug to nestle the yarn soft against his cheek, "Always trusting you. Only you."

"Good. Here goes. Question one." Deep breath pulled in, Steve's ask expecting the truth, "What are your current coordinates?"

Bucky laughing, "Not fair. Supposed to be about the past, not now."

"This is about the past. More than ever this is about the past. What are your coordinates?"

"Actually, I was secretly hoping you'd ask that question. Sure. Okay, coordinates." Bucky crossed to the pilot's console, fingers clearing the wet blurring his vision, a check of the panel, he muttered, "Texting them right now." A tremor shaking his hand as he input the data.

Steve's voice a touch lighter, "Got it. Second question. Buck, are you there?"

"Yup. Here still, here. Is that the second question?"

"No. Come on, stick with me. This is it. Second question. Where are you going? Not the final destination, not asking where the Architect is located. I want to know where to find you when we land."

"Catching on aren't you?" Bucky's quick laugh falling away, his tone low and serious, "You can't be with me. It is not safe. You can't talk to me. Can't touch me. Do you understand?"

"I understand. Answer my question. Now, before I lose you before you change your mind before anything else gets between us."

Bucky closing his eyes, phone to his ear, Steve's anxious breath filling his hearing. Memory conjuring him up, body warmth pressing close, fingers taking his skin, finding the places intimate shared. Wanting his possession, keeping him safe. Not thinking only feeling, his voice a low murmur, telling his secret, "Khabarovsk. I'll be in Khabarovsk."

Bucky slumped to the floor with the ending of their call. Hands cradling bowed head, holding close the urge to sob, guarding his feelings, the Widow's steps coming near. Minutes to regain his composure, her figure near to touching his shoulder, deliberate waiting. Slow movement to straighten his back, deep breath to settle his thoughts, methodical creation of the compartments in his mind, forever used to protect his sanity, safe place to hide Steve away. Long staring at the phone before he handed it to the Widow, not connecting with her eyes. A muttered, "It's time."

A pause before she took it, her voice finding the cold command he'd always known, "When we make this call, Soldat the clock begins to tick for us. They will know we are here. They will come for us. There will be no going back."

His response resolute, "The clock is always ticking."

Sokolov nodded her assent, a knowing measured dialing of the phone one number short, she paused, "Perhaps they will kill us as soon as we disembark. Perhaps later. Likely a better, more efficient assassin than yourself will end our time of service."

Bucky slow nodding, "Entirely possible. Maybe my plan isn't shit. Maybe, just maybe we can get there."

She looked at him sitting at her feet, a final number entered, phone to her ear, she directed him, "Soldat, it is time to disable the autopilot."

Bucky dutiful and obedient, slow crawled beneath the console, quick search and smooth tug with metal fingers, the disengagement of the autopilot lurching the jet, he pulled himself into the pilot's seat.

Gieta Sokolov, Black Widow, former and now returning handler of the Winter Soldier stepped to take her place to the right of his shoulder, back straight and square, her look losing its frailty, "Roles will be resumed I take it? How else will we get close? You won't be welcome in your current state of, shall I call it, disarray?"

Hands spread to drag the hair from his face, full tremor sweeping head to toe, no effort to hide it from her now. Conscious search for the coldness pushed aside the day he walked away from Hydra. Bucky's heart sinking deep to embrace his former life, his answer murmured in perfected Russian "I know, Mother, I know."


	16. Chapter 16 Sometimes Plans Change

"Yes. Hello, Barnes. Helllooo?" Playful tone made cutting, anger layered with mocking. The flickering image of Tony Stark hovered inches from Bucky's temple, pulling a quick sidelong glance, enough to admire the technology not enough to satisfy the demand for his attention.

 _"Too bad you killed his parents. Just think of all the fascinating stuff he's got in his sandbox."_

Bucky's cringe kept hidden, gaze resolute studying the horizon, Stark's reaction inevitable. A conscious embrace of the coldness needed for a mission, blocking the Voice's taunt, bracing for Stark's next move.

Clipped words, terse tone, "That device you just destroyed? My property, my design, state-of-the-art. Light years ahead of that hack at Tesla."

 _"Yet another reference for Steve's notebook. Tesla? Right up there with the wonders of_ _B_ _erry_ _B_ _lue_ _J_ _ello and the mystery of flavored lubricants."_

Bucky tilted his head, valiant effort to shake off the voices, real and internal, he wriggled in the pilot's seat, ducking to see past Stark's gliding face.

Tony's holographic image squinting, "Needless to say, that technology is expensive. You destroyed it. If that wasn't enough, you broke our deal."

Stubborn resistance to making eye contact. Emotions tucked deep hidden, tension dispelled in the tapping of his toes, jaw locking tight keeping the tremors at bay, not giving Stark any hint of how his presence made him feel.

Stark adding, finger pointed, "I can see you channeling your inner Winter." Sitting back, hands folded, studied assessment, "That vacant stare, slight twitch at your jaw, completely non-verbal, breaking all the cool toys as you go."

Seconds passing in silence, Tony's hard stare, sudden lean forward, image near to brushing Bucky's cheek, the heat of his breath ghosting on his skin. Huffing a laugh before launching, voice gritted with sarcasm, "Here's what I think. Not that I've given you much thought. Maybe when I'm at the dentist's and the laughing gas hasn't kicked in I might spend a few seconds on your disgusting existence." Head tilted, eyes narrowing, "Here's my theory: Hydra erased your past, not who you are. Not the man at the core. The killer. That was there before, during and still there today. You are a piece of shit now and forever."

Bucky's eyes darting right then left, connecting with Stark's, three seconds, falling to the controls, quick locking on the horizon, stumbling effort to hide his agreement. Heated rush of memories, shaking his resolve, nausea flipping his gut pushed down with his struggle to refocus.

Tony's voice grinding on, words not discernible falling victim to the ringing in Bucky's ears, nausea crawling up his throat, sweat breaking across his palm, hand slipping as the quinjet lurched with the scattering of his focus. Mind hearing Stark's indictment building, Bucky not disagreeing, wanting to argue, to defend himself, in the end believing every word of what Tony said as the truth.

Bucky's own voice counting his shame, colliding with logic, heart bearing his guilt, mind recounting his work for redemption, confusion building heat to chase across his skin. Desperate move to break the pain, deliberate reach to drive his metal fist through the floating image of Stark embedding in the console. "Enough," guttural growl, sharp turn of his head, meeting Tony's cold stare, "You think I haven't..." Bucky stopped short, ragged breath to tuck secret his answer, faint rasp, measured cadence, "Nineteen days, three hours, fifteen minutes, come and get me. I will be right where I told you I'd be. You want me, meet me there." Slow breath pulled in, harsh final statement, "In the meantime, get the fuck out of my mission."

Tony's image disappearing, mouth open to speak, hand raised in protest, Bucky glanced down to see his own hand flat-palmed on the comm. Breath let out long and slow, head falling back to the seat, relief pushing fatigue through his body.

Turbulence rocking their stability, Bucky jarred in the seat, as he wrestled with the controls. Thoughts wandering to the satisfying imaginings that Stark was somewhere in Upstate New York wildly gesturing as they grappled with one another over the jet's flight pattern.

Sokolov, feet wide-spread riding it out, stance firm, body swaying with every bounce and dip, the picture of stubborn defiance. A furtive glance to take her in, Bucky's loose and tangential impression that she reminded him of a character in a book he'd once read about a captain going down with the ship. Quick shiver at the parallel, he abandoned the struggle to recall the title.

Focus shifting to her face, cold eyes staring straight ahead watching the approaching land, tension evident in the lines of her features. Darting look over his shoulder following her arm out-stretched, white-knuckle grip of the pilot's seat, an inch too close to his shoulder. Her Cyrillic words distant in his hearing, "We have clearance from the tower at Tsentral'nyy, our contacts will be there, expecting our complete cooperation."

Bucky shaking his head, gaze shifting to the distance, thoughts racing methodical, desperate search for something other than surrender. Maneuvering the quinjet to tease the ocean surface, water rippling from their passing. Gaze darting from horizon to radar, expecting Russian interception, heart hoping to see the blip of Steve's presence following in his wake.

Sokolov's directions grating his nerves, "You will follow my lead. We will need to give them more than one reason to keep us alive. Do not fight them, whatever they do. I will not allow irreparable damage. You will trust me." Her words giving life to his panic, flashed scenes of her protection in the past, wry smile at his pain, faint nod for dark figures to continue his torture, begging gray eyes following her back as she walked away from his screams.

Controls vibrating erratic under his palms, pulling him from the past. Bucky forcing his own steadiness to weave their course graceful side to side, buying Steve time, still moving forward, facing his fate, land looming closer with every passing second. Plans clicking into place in his mind, doors opening to the memories he'd tucked secret as Steve filled his life. Darkened snapshots of locations, resources hidden years earlier, mission directives garbled and aborted. Stern-faced handlers passing one to the next, their names irrelevant, all rising through his inner vision, pushed aside by his refocus.

"Your pathetic attempts at revenge in Boston were nothing more than a nuisance to Hydra. Nevertheless, your escapade cost them time and money. They will need some kind of retribution. This is the hand I will play. You will be contrite, obedient, you will submit. You will give them all that they ask." Her fingers tightening on the seat, feet stumbling to stay upright at Bucky's purposeful jerk of the controls, his unspoken response to her commands. Dry assessment once she righted herself, "The Captain's soft touch has eroded your skills."

Bucky's muttered response, "Actually he's taught me a couple of new ones. You wanna hear about them?"

Sokolov undaunted, "Our superiors will be quite pleased with my gift. This jet. The Winter Soldier's return. Your memories. All that you now know about the Captain, Stark, the Avengers. Given your cooperation, I will be greatly rewarded for my resourcefulness."

"Yup. You are resourceful, I'll give you that," Bucky biting a bruise to his lip.

"We will not push to see the Architect. That will bring suspicion. We will bide our time," deformed fingers tugging to straighten her jacket. "Your skill was never as a spy, never patience, subtlety; your skills were, at one time, direct, uncompromising, killing. This mission calls for finesse, not brute force." An emphatic nod, agreeing with herself, no shift of her gaze to engage him.

Hot flush across his cheeks, Bucky's anger showing on his skin, head turning slow to watch her monologue spoken towards the horizon. Words forming kept internal, their argument playing out in his head, hard fought to keep from blurting his defense.

 _"A glimmer of restraint. So you are capable of a modicum of self-control. Soldat one-half point. Mother remains at four."_

Gaze returning to shift between the radar and the sky, low sweeping arc left to right to left, Bucky stalling their approach. Lowering wing flaps, slowing their speed, anxious scanning the clouded skies, holding his breath, waiting for Steve. 

"Maybe he lied." Sam's caustic assessment drawing chastising glances from both Steve and Natasha. "Sorry, I know you two have faith in him, but he's with you know who."

Deep breath pulled in, muttered words firm "He didn't lie," Steve keeping his focus, piloting their jet, eye darting from radar to sky and back again. Quick check of the coordinates that Bucky had texted, reassuring himself they were still on track. Deep fears pushed aside, the chance of a lie meant to protect, clinging to the hope that Bucky would relent, accepting his help. Chest tightening with every passing second without the hint of his trail. Heart sinking kept to himself.

"I've got a good idea of where he's heading in Moscow, Steve. We have that at least, even if we can't catch up to him now." Natasha's attempt at reassurance as she stood at his side, not settling in his hearing.

Sam offering as he slipped into the co-pilot's seat, "Every algorithm we've run on those numbers he left is coming up a blank except that address. The others aren't even divisible by three. I don't know if that makes them real or a bunch of gibberish."

His tone hesitant, a side-long look towards Steve, "For all we know that Widow has used those trigger words. He might not even be Barnes by now. As much as being Barnes constitutes being an obnoxious, truck-wrecking, bathroom-hogging, empty-milk-jug-left-in-the-fridge, pain-in-the-ass, I'll

admit it to the two of you. Just the two of you. It would be a damn shame after all he's been through."

Steve searching memories, Bucky telling his secrets in the dark of their room. Body recalling the feel of him tucked close, sitting on the floor back to the wall, arms and legs tangled surrounding. His recounting of Steve's rescue a reverberating whisper against his chest. Bucky's voice full of uncertainty telling of how the trigger words seemed to loosen their hold, because of the Widow. Steve holding him tighter when the fear took his hope, not saying what he was thinking, finding it all too hard to believe, that the Widow might undo her own work.

Fingers rolling tip to tip, searching memory for the feel of his skin, the soft of his hair, Steve pushing down the hint of anxiety catching his breath, distracted from his thoughts by the soft repetitive ping of the radar.

Natasha looking over his shoulder, "Steve, did you see that?"

Attention pulled in, studying the screen, gaze bounding from sky to radar and back again. Faint ping coming louder, clouded sky blocking his vision, faint movement finally detected by the grace of the serum. Steve breathing a sigh, tense shoulders visible releasing, daring the faintest of smiles, "There, over there. I got him." 

Sharp sound of the radar, catching their attention, Bucky sitting forward, straining to take in all angles of the sky visible from the cockpit, searching for their quinjet. Anxious excitement, muttering, "Steve," not well hidden from the Widow's keen watch.

"Yes, the Captain. Of course. He is following us." Sokolov's curt observation slipping past his attention.

Bucky's reactive reach for the comm, a need to hear Steve's voice, cut short by the Widow's grab of his hair, yanking him back to the seat. Her voice hissing cold in his ear "No communication. I did not give you permission to speak to him."

Frozen three seconds, counting conscious, his scalp aching from her tug, flash of regret for the misstep, body tremor hard to control, her breath too close to his cheek.

 _"You will forever be her possession."_

Fighting her hold on his mind, sudden twisting move of his head, deliberate pull forward, pressured against her grip, pain shooting across his scalp. Hair caught in her hand, some slipping from her fingers, some tearing from his head. Pulling himself free.

Voice tight holding his anger mixed with defiance. A side-long look, not willing to satisfy her need for his full attention, daring a growled warning, "I do not need your permission to do a damn thing."

Sokolov's gaze narrowing, breath taken to argue, held back for a change of tactic, "Our contacts will be monitoring your communications. They'll know of his approach as well. I am merely keeping him safe."

 _"Rather inconvenient when she's right. Mother: Five. Soldat: One-half."_

Deep, steadying breath, Bucky turned to search the sky, anxious scanning to settle on a faint darkened spot in the distance fast approaching. Guarded sigh of relief, faith holding that it was Steve, adjusting controls to dip from their hover and speed towards the land. Quick gliding low to the ground, nausea twisting in his gut with each passing second closer to their goal.

Slipping below radar's reach, skimming the ground, livestock scattering at his approach, wind shear rocking the flight, vibrations tearing the hull. His purposeful wild ride forcing Sokolov to stagger to a seat, strapping herself in to weather their final approach.

Her shout above the rattling din, "Your flying too low, we are miles from the airport, Soldat. Pull up, our deaths will be pointless."

Bucky pushing the speed, head falling back to the seat, letting the shake of the jet take his body, racing to his dreaded rendezvous. Thoughts grasping desperate to Steve, ghosted hands pressed to his chest, tongue finding his taste locked in his memory, mind searching for his voice. Eyes closing to allow the waking dream to drift across his inner vision, breathing deep to gather the last of his scent, fingers tugging the sweater to his face.

 _"We've been to this region before. Remember. Soft touch, warmth settling in your belly, horrible smell. Still, better than most of your holding cells. Chistopole."_

Vague memories coming clearer, secondary plan forming even as the radio crackled with the sound of sharp Russian words, relaying their landing instructions. Bucky not startled, thoughts racing to calculate their change in direction, pulling memories forward. Abrupt eyes open, hard turn to the left, rocking the jet, backpack thumping loose, clattering of gear. Wingtip grazing, burnt line searing the earth, fighting the shear to pull from its forward motion, nausea-inducing halt to settle in a hover.

The Widow's voice cracking, "Soldat. You are an idiot. What are you doing?"

Darting glance towards where she sat, face paler than seconds earlier, hand clutching her stomach. Half smile for recognizing what she was feeling. Answer muttered for himself, not caring what she thought, "Change in plans."

 _"Finely executed. Gain of one for the new plan. And one for making her vomit in her mouth. Mother: Five. Soldat: Two and one-half."_

Bucky studied the landscape, memories flooding in. Time spent as the Soldier, faceless handlers leading. Secrets hidden away, men long dead locking him in the shadows. One cell equaling all the others; except this one.

Recall flooding senses, soft sounds, living creatures sharing his space, warm breath teasing metal fingers extended apprehensive, seeking connection, welcomed without judgment.

Sweet smell of cut hay, rhythmic clip of hooves, time frame lost. Intimate nickered greetings flowing stall to stall as his stride slowed each night being lead down the aisle, letting the sounds wash over him.

Rough hands pushing his reluctant progress, body chained in place, door slammed, food tossed in the hay, his night plunged into darkness. The Soldier's careful dare to reach a finger through the grate, tenuous hope for a warm embrace. Soft skin pressed seeking his touch, breath blown hot to his skin, velveted muzzle tickling metal sensors, whispered greetings shared, not alone.

Bucky lost in a memory standing out from all others, his plan taking form, slow fire of satisfaction as he scanned the horse farm spread out below the jet. Long low red brick of a stable, paddocks and pens, snow-covered now, outline still visible. Scattered moving dots beyond where he aimed, dark browns, blacks, and whites, cautious maneuvers to keep from spooking the horses. Heart lightening at the memory of sharing their stalls, dared fondness interrupted by the Voice's reminder.

 _"Target acquired."_

Lips forming a crooked smirk, pushing the jet into a dive heading straight for the ground.

Sokolov's voice cracking with her scream, "Soldat, pull up. Damn it, you're going to kill us. Pull up!"

Last second leveling to drive the jet nose-first slamming hard into the soft give of the earthen pile. Bucky thrown forward, head bouncing against the console, sharp pain as restraints captured his body. Hands propelled forward, wrenching ache to flesh wrist, metal sensors screaming a warning hot up his arm, to chase across his shoulder. Warm liquid trickling to sting eyesight dull, wetting the hair that fell across his face, darkness engulfing with the burying of the jet.

Faint groan distant in his hearing, the Widow near awake, pulling him from his stunned collapse against the controls. Lying sprawled forward, letting the pain reach its peak, knowing it would wane, history repeating itself. The Widow's low moan mixing with the creak and hiss of the jet, engines straining against the earth surrounding them. His hand blind reaching to shut them down, ears ringing with the silence and the throbbing in his head.

Hand shaking, Bucky reached to wipe the blood from his eyes, dragging the hair from his face, blinking vision clear. Every fiber aching from the torque of the landing, seconds spent to take an accounting of his limbs.

 _"All present accounted for, and unbroken. Depending on your intent. That was a spectacular landing, or you need your license revoked."_

"Very funny. Completely intended. Thank you." A slowed struggle to free himself from the seatbelt, quicker move to get to Sokolov, harsh tug to pull her free, two metal fingers snagging her jacket, a gathering of his backpack, he dragged her stumbling beside him to the exit ramp.

Closed fist firm applied to the latch, the ramp creaking its protest, "If I calculated that correctly, our ass-end is still in the open."

 _"Your ass-end is always in the open, Soldat."_

Heartbeats pounding chest to throat to temple, Steve chasing Bucky. Breathing ragged and deep, footfalls dull thump on hard ground, slipping errant on iced snow, racing full speed to stumble slow into the low slung building.

Run falling to a walk, fast-paced on brick pavers, steps dancing left and right navigating people. Feet shuffling to a stop, eyes straining for a glimpse; flash of long hair, backpack, his jacket. Rush forward to close the gap, bright jump of color, familiar and cherished, Bucky wearing his sweater, daring to peek beneath a sleeve, the bottom of his jacket. Heart hurting with each teasing hint of a view, quick disappearing before his hand could reach him.

Gut turning over, skin flushing heat, catching a hint of him not far ahead. Fast walking the center aisle of the barn, dodging children, ducking the cross-tied horses, cautious hurry, chest tightening with every second lost. Gaze intent looking forward, faint glimpse of dark hair, fingers desperate reaching out, hope to connect falling to disappointment when he captured a stranger. "Sorry, sorry," mumbled, words not understood, appeasing gestures accepted.

Steve staggering across the threshold, end of the barn, sneakers skidding to a halt, empty space wide open, no hint of Bucky showing. Deep catching breath, eyes searching, serum enhancement not serving him well. Hand to his ear, inspiration ragged not hiding his pain, "Tasha, Sam anything?"

Natasha's quiet answer in his ear, "Nothing here at the entrance."

Sam adding as he settled by his side, "I've got nothing."

Letting eyes close, stealing seconds, picturing what he knew he saw minutes earlier, Bucky walking quick steps, not running ahead of him, half glance back, their eyes connecting, sure of his recognition. Steve's hand raised, calling his name, Bucky turning away pushing forward, driving the Widow stumbling ahead of him.

"He saw me. I know he saw me." Steve running a hand through his hair, steps taking him in a circle, eyes raking the landscape, sure he'd find him nearby. Mind hoping the gaze that connected with his own minutes earlier had been a stranger, heart knowing without a doubt it was Bucky.

Natasha joining them, "He doesn't want to be seen with you. It isn't safe for you or him. We're lucky to be this close."

Sam offered, "Not that lucky. Did you see what he did to Stark's jet? That's gonna be hard to explain." 

"You're an idiot, Soldat." Sokolov's biting remarks hissed low beneath the hover of Bucky's metal fingers, close but not touching her mouth. "They'll find that jet. A dungheap? You buried that jet in a dungheap. Fool."

Sharp ache spreading across his chest, delving deep to wrap tight pain around his heart, watching Steve standing in the open, gaze frantic searching. Bucky wanting to step from his hiding place, shove the Widow to the ground, stride purposeful and direct towards Steve, damn the prying eyes. Fuck the remnants of Hydra he was sure were on their way, realization hitting them, he'd pulled out of their deal.  
Staggered step forward, the pull of Steve so close, spurring him on, a slip from behind the shed, out in the open, hand pinning the Widow to the building, breath pulled in, near to calling his name.

 _"If they catch you. They'll kill him. Remember why we did this? Cut him up in a thousand pieces and feed him to you and the dogs. If you must be a weakling and have him close, better to let him chase you from a distance."_

Steps caught in a stumble, heart pulling him forward, logic forcing him back, reluctant retreat to hide behind his cover. Gaze still locking on Steve through the mismatched planks of the shed, scattered glimpses of his jacket, blond hair unkempt. A sigh of relief that he'd ditched the uniform for street clothes muttered commentary "No sense sticking out like a sore thumb, Rogers." Bucky dropping his head to rest against the wood of the shed, eyes closing to steal three seconds of rest.

Decision made, single metal fingertip poking Sokolov, moving her forward. Bucky slow following shuffled pause, resolve urging his walking away, heart needing one last look over his shoulder, studying Steve. Body feeling his hands slipping across his skin, arms telling of his safety, hips showing his want, his gaze offering unwavering acceptance. Not wanting to leave, believing he had no choice.

Quick steps, not running, head down, hood tugged to cover his hair, forcing the Widow ahead, gaze scanning the ground knowing his goal. A stop at the water pump, heel to the pipe, measured strides counting muttered, sets of three, a halt when he reached six sets.

"Sit right there." Eyes connecting with the Widow, deliberate point at the ground three steps away, her stance defiant refusing to follow his demand. Head tilting to take her in, his eyes a narrowing cold, "Sit. Down."

Seconds passing long enough to irritate, her feet shuffling a half step, relenting. Dropping to her knees, a curt nod giving him nothing.

Feet kicking aside hardened snow, uncovering concrete. A fall to his knees to dig with metal fingers, quick glance to check on Sokolov. Hand hitting a metal handle, breath pulled in for a pause. Fingers tightening, a rise to his feet, hard straining to tear the cover free.

Standing head bowed, staring long and hard into the dark muck of a septic tank. Holding his breath to let the stench settle in his nostrils. Stomach rolling more at the thought of his next move than the wafting steamed odor hitting cold air.

Back to his knees, tentative reach pulling short. Conscious effort to close the doors in his mind, the ones connecting to Steve, his life away from Hydra. Hard attempt to find the coldness that filled the Soldier's life.

Heavy sigh as flesh fingers, shaking and uncertain pulled at the zipper of his jacket. Moving quicker with each passing second, stripping it away, backpack hitting the ground, tugging the sweater over his head, tossed close to his feet. A ragged breath pulled in, determined dive forward to sprawl across the concrete base to shove his metal hand deep into the putrid fluid.  
 _  
"Although it's never a good time to puke, this might be a justifiable reason to puke. Much better than anxiety or too many visits to the shrimp bar."_

Loud groan as much for the circumstances as it was for the Voice. Bucky's fingers quick searching walls and ledges. Breath staccato and shallow, face turned away, hoping what he sought was still there.

"Fuck, come on. It's gotta be here. No one in their right mind would dig this out except me." Muttering aloud, cursory glance at the Widow, her kneeling contemplation of his depravity evident in the wide of her eyes and tight line formed by her mouth.

Her studying gaze feeding his paranoia, "What are you looking at?"

Closing his eyes, not wanting to see the look on Sokolov's face, shutting out the bright of the day. Memory searching back, hoping a neuron or two would fire to help him find the package with the least amount of time spent stirring up the muck.

Hand sliding cautious and methodical following bumpy contours, the perimeter exam near to complete, low groan of frustration as his fingers arrived where he started. Head dropping to press against the snow. "Do not make me get in there. Please do not make me do that," words spoken to no one in particular.

Eyes opened, reluctant crawl to his kneels, steadying breath, pulling himself closer, dread filling his thoughts. A scramble to drop his feet inside the tank caught short by his change in angle. The light glinting dull on a plastic wrapped package tucked in a basket against the North wall of the tank, just beyond the reach of his exam. Seconds passing to let relief roll across his mind, fists clenching, one word a hissed whisper, "Yes."

Tugging the cover back into place, flesh hand grabbing his belongings, metal fingers clutching the package. A turn to face the Widow now standing, Bucky caught short. Her look of disdain drawing a hot flush of red to chase across his cheeks, "What? What are you looking at?"

Dark eyes not hiding her thoughts. Familiar coldness a look he'd grown to expect, hard judgments for his mistakes, perverse enjoyment of his pain. Even her softness carried a pity that made him feel small. This look he faced now feeling different, her mouth pulled tight, nose crinkled, eyes raking judgmental following the drip of dark liquid as it trickled down the metal of his arm to fall splattered on his boot.

Heart sudden pounding in his chest, Bucky shuffled his feet, a glance towards his hand, gut turning embarrassed; never caring as the Soldier, missing the coldness now. Awkwardness morphing to anger, voice low and cracking, "You're disgusted. Is that it? I disgust you?"

The Widow waving a dismissive hand, "Foul, you smell foul." Steps taken to widen the space between them, finger sharp pointed to his arm, "You must wash that immediately."

Bucky's steps to follow held up when she raised a stopping hand. Letting seconds pass facing her upturned palm, obedient to their history. Cold wind catching his hair, forcing the shiver that broke him from his stare.

"This?" Arm extended holding the parcel, staggered step following her retreat, voice gaining strength, "This is your idea. You taught me this."

Sokolov backing quicker, hands raised, disgust giving way to horror as he pressed closer with every stride. "I made you ruthless, not pathetic." Defiant words ending in a grunt when her back hard collided with the brick of the stable.

Bucky's darting pace foot slipping in the snow, with each erratic step, "You turn your nose up at how I do things?" Raising the parcel to hover an inch from her face, "You think this shit is the worst thing I've had on my hands?"

Cold air stinging the heat flushing his skin, quick pacing tight line inches from her feet, anger sparring with shame. "I killed for you. Do you know what blood looks like caked between the grooves of my hand?" Sharp turn, jerked footsteps, close looming over her, long hair tremored and soiled brushing her skin, low growled words each syllable drawn out, "Blood you wanted. And now you look, like that, at me?"

Sokolov's face turned away, cheek taking the brunt of his words, full minute passing, deep breath, head tilting back to rest against the wall. A dare to look up and meet his glare inches apart features cold, "You are an unruly child. Needing discipline. You are drawing attention to us, exactly what we do not need."

Bucky swallowing hard, a tremor slipping across exposed skin, fingers tightening on the sweater and jacket in his hand, matching her cold stare.

 _"I am the bringer of bad news. Mother: Six..."_

Slow shake of his head, gritted response, "Shut up. Both of you. Just shut up." Bucky's raised arm dripping muck from the parcel, pointing towards the far end of the stable, clear directive unwavering, hearing the Soldier in his tone, "Move. No argument. Move." Sokolov offering an assenting nod, he followed in her footsteps along the length of the wall. 

Slamming wooden door, Bucky's foot connecting, rattle sound echoing in the ceramic-walled room. "Get out," menacing guttural growl startled occupants, conversations stopping mid-sentence, no one moving.

The Widow gliding silent past Bucky's erratic pacing. Settling shoulders braced in the corner, deformed hand wrapped discreet by her palm, watching him unravel, thin line of a smile revealing.

Staggered steps attempting a path to the sink, scattering boys, men daring to stand firm. Transfixed by the sight of Bucky's metal arm, flexing fist, missing the wild gaze edging anger telling them to scatter. Breaths coming hard and fast, panic teasing the surface, the muck soaked package tossed in one sink; coat, sweater, and backpack dropped at his feet. Tremors taking his hand as he reached to turn on the water.

Hard eyes watching, bodies unmoved by his warning, presence creeping to awareness, rapt staring at his metal arm. Bucky demanding loud again, "I said get out."

No one moving, still staring, more curious than afraid.

Steadying hands resting on sink's edge, head bowed, hair tumultuous hiding his face. Voice rising angered and cracking to echo hard against the tiles, "Get the fuck out of here. Now."

Sokolov's soft Cyrillic hard to hear under the pounding in his ears, her words laced with derision, "They don't understand you. English, you're speaking English."

Buck shaking his head, fighting to keep control, rolling a shoulder to turn towards the group, "Get the fuck out of here, now," Russian words growled coherent, threatening steps in their direction, getting him what he wanted, the men rushing to leave.

Metal fingers spread wide on the porcelain, steadying grip on the handle, head spinning, vision slipping darker. Wandering thoughts of when he'd eaten, hard to recall the last water taken, memory clear on taking his meds.

Forced breaths pulled in deep and long and slow, gaze falling lost to dark iron-colored swirls staining white porcelain, mind struggling to find calmness. Deliberate, measured effort, fingers to spigot, slow turn to make the water flow.

"You're a fool, Soldat." Sokolov's words spit and cutting, invading reminder that she was still there. Her move towards the door blocked by Bucky's quick steps driving her back, "They will call the police. You and I will be arrested, questioned and disappeared. You will never reach The Architect this way. I should have never trusted you."

"Stop talking." Steps towards the sink, doubled back facing her again, "Trust? This," a finger pointed to include them both, "This has nothing to do with trust. I told you. You owe me. And you will pay up."

Staggered step back to the sink, hands bracing the porcelain, watching the bowl fill with the water. Soap desperate spilling on metal, hands rubbing together, slow and methodical first pass, growing rougher. Fingers digging between metal plates, scrubbing obsessive, metal and flesh colliding harder, arm immersed, water spilling to the floor.

Images flashing forward, taking his thoughts, long nights after missions, pulling the aftermath from his arm, men's hands on the metal, clearing the evidence of his work. Body sitting passive, allowing their touch; most nights ending uneventful; dark memories teasing his awareness, men hanging back, taking more than the flesh embedded in the grooves of his arm.

Bile rising in his throat, ghosted hands, pressured touch recalled by the skin of his back, the sounds and feel of grunted breaths dragging sweat to his neck; his shiver weakening muscles, taking him to his knees.

Hands still immersed in the water, scrubbing frantic, vibranium not affected, flesh giving in, metal fingertips gouging lines, skin morphing white, then dark, springing red. Bucky, eyes closed, letting the dreams take him, forehead pressing the cold of the sink, hands scrubbing flesh raw, metal uncaring. Vague knowing the guilt would never wash away, pressured sob building in his chest, taking his throat, his air, demanding release. Bucky stopped moving, breath held, desperate desire to hide his tears from the Widow.

A quiet shuffled click of the door opening behind him, hearing not lost in his struggle, senses alerting the impending threat.

Flesh hand moving cautious and hidden to wrap around the gun tucked at the front of his pants. Breathing out slow, focus narrowing, taking stock of the sound and smell and tastes in the air surrounding.

Only movement of his body faint tremor shaking hair hanging long to cover his face. Back still turned to the door, head pressing the sink, mind shutting down to do the one thing he'd need to survive.

Seconds passing expectant in silence, gun slow drawn clear, finger's caress of the trigger. Mind's eye creating his move, shoulder dropping, roll back, gun raised from his knees, fire until all bullets are gone. Hope for split seconds to grab the backpack, leave the Widow, head for the window.

Decision made, faint twitch of his shoulder caught short by one word.

"Buck?"

Steve's voice lilting soft, an echo in the room, more warmth embedded in his tone than Bucky had felt ever in his lifetime.

Not able to move, tremor chasing head to knees, Bucky closing his eyes unable to fight the weight of his fatigue, afraid to believe his hearing. The shudder pushing his metal arm to slide in the wet of the sink.

"It's me. Steve. It's okay," voice whispered loud enough for him to hear. Tentative steps approaching, one foot nudging Bucky's shin, slipping in the wet of the floor.

"Don't touch me," rolling his metal shoulder, pulling from the chance of Steve's touch, not turning around, face kept hidden, forehead pressed to the cold of the sink.

"Yup I know. Not touching you." Steve's words not matching his actions, feet settling left then right, Bucky watching his sneakers nestle closer. Warmth spreading in his gut with Steve's drop to his knees, tucking him in, pressured hold tightening shin-to-shin.

"You can't be here you can't be with me." Bucky head down, words directed towards the floor, faint jerk of his body flinching from the touch anticipated. Body wanting to fall back into his arms, mind telling him not to give in, senses reminding that the Widow stood a few feet away.

Steve unrelenting, "I'm not here. I was hoping to take a leak, but I walked in and what a coincidence, here you are." One hand light placed on his metal shoulder, the other a slow, cautious stroke of his hair.

Head tilting, words not matching, Bucky leaned to follow Steve's caress, "No don't touch me. You have no idea. None. So just let go right now."

Steve's hand slipping careful, slow caress of Bucky's metal arm, palm spreading possessive over the back of his hand. "Yup, I get it." Chest pressing to Bucky's back, beard prickling his ear, whispered promise, "Know what? I don't care." Steve digging fingers between rigid metal, the hold on the sink giving way to his touch, hands wrapping together falling into a tight embrace.

Bucky's near turn to see Steve, temple raking beard, words sincere, "No really. My hand. I reached in the septic to get the passports, the money. Hidden years ago. Hydra shit. Still there. I knew it. They must never clean that thing."

Soft caress holding a sudden stillness, "You stuck your hand in the septic tank. And you let me touch it?" Teasing evident in Steve's tone.

Subtle roll of his ass, bumping reminder, "No. I told you. You ignored me. As usual. Steven, I-know-better-than-you-Barnes, Rogers."

Steve's laugh blew warm on Bucky's cheek, "Barnes-Rogers? I like the sound of that."

"What the fuck?" His squirm to make eye contact, held off when Steve hard pulled him closer.

Voice muffled pressing close against Bucky's hair, Steve's aching clear, "Come home. Give this up, please. I can't lose you."

Metal fingers tightening their grip on flesh, "Too late now. They know we're here we called them. We were supposed to meet them at an airstrip nearby. I backed out. They'll come for us." Short laugh, high-pitched, pulled back, "Anyway, I can't go back. Look at the jet."

Steve pulling entangled fingers, arms wrapping Bucky's chest, a hand slipping to gentle caress the healing cut on his forehead. Hard tug chest to back, soft fingers exploring the wound, the frown clear in his voice, "Yeah we saw. You flew the jet into a dungheap. Funny."

Eyes closed, leaning back, Bucky taking the rush of heat from the closeness of Steve's body, "Yeah. No one will look for it there."

Words spoken against his neck, "You know they have a cloaking mechanism right?" Lips pressed a following kiss.

Head giving under Steve's pull, neck opening, offering his skin, "Right. I forgot." Teeth nipping thin pinch of his flesh, drawing the mark, guarded hiss of his approval. Gut clenching heat with Steve's whisper to the bruise, "Liar." 

Steve cupping Bucky's jaw, turning his face, needing to see his eyes. Their argument days before, constant companion in his search, replaying louder now with Bucky in his arms. "I'm sorry. What I said. I'm an idiot," words cut off by Bucky's mouth, lips gentle pressed to his own.

Softest of sighs vibrating against his mouth, taking caution from his thoughts, Steve deepening the kiss. Tongue teasing Bucky's lips to part, slow exploration, taking his taste, savoring every second, each caressing excursion, wanting this to last forever. Bucky's faint whimper, driving a tighter hold across his chest, hand fisting in his hair, pulling a sudden shiver from his body.

Huffed curt laugh intruding, Steve opening his eyes, mouth still pressed to Bucky's lips, his gaze quick taking in the room, coming to a halt on the small figure tucked in the corner. Dark eyes meeting his, more than coldness projected, Gieta Sokolov, stood watching their embrace, her smile nowhere near benevolent.


	17. Chapter 17 Troika

"You're grayer than I remember. And shorter." Steve's gaze unwavering. Arms tight cradling Bucky, holding still the squirm brought on by her laughter.

Sokolov matching his stare, cold intensity, "You've grown a beard." A calculated pause, "You know, he never liked the facial hair."

Slight curve of Steve's lips, hinting a smirk, knowing her meaning, "You didn't fool him, He knew it wasn't me."

Curt observation, "I see your leg has healed nicely," Dark eyes narrowed, "We should have torn it off."

Frigid Russian air surrounding pulling skin taut, prickling every breath; eyes watered with cold-pulled tears, the room's stale odor filling nostrils. Distant sense of wetness, shins straddling Bucky, kneeling at the sink, spilling water dampening their legs, quick reach to turn it off. All sensations giving way to Steve's singular focus, heat spreading fiber to fiber, coursing through his body burning hotter at each point of contact holding Bucky possessive. Skin matching metal, arm wrapping his waist, groin pressed to ass, back tight held to his chest. Their mouths close flirting the kiss her laugh had interrupted.

Fingers slotting intimate with metal, pressured pain chasing up Steve's arm, welcomed discomfort from recent ghosted emptiness. Fingertip's tender caress of a wound, raking through hair cascading. Apprehension falling away with Bucky's softening, head giving under his hand, weight laid against his chest, bodies fitting close familiar.

Steve wanting nothing more than to take Bucky home. Reality standing in the corner.

Sokolov's appearance frailer than the last time he'd seen her; standing over him strapped to a chair, pain, and drugs blurring his vision. Calculated taking her in; squared shoulders, demeanor projecting the icy calm of her years as a Black Widow, hands folded neatly. Her smile unnerving, the condescension of a hardened soldier wrapped in the guise of a grandmother. Her gaze pointed, features not showing her thoughts, eyes quick rake of their embrace, glinting disapproval.

Unapologetic return of her stare, Steve pulling Bucky closer, fingers spread possessive, tangled in hair, palm warm to his temple, small finger pad soft stroke of his cheek. Fear teasing his thoughts, unspoken pull from across the room, deep-felt in his heart, twisted ache in his chest.

Finding reassurance in the feel of Bucky giving in, hard clatter of the gun hitting the floor, body moving to fit tight to his own, mouth pressed to his skin, fingers catching his face, a thumb's hard rake of his beard, returning his possessive hold, tense muscles slipping soft under his hands. Skin prickling warm from Bucky's breath, gentle rise and fall steady comfort. Steve reveling in these seconds, heat cradled against his body, intimate fit between his legs, thoughts falling to the softness of hair carded in his fingers, wishing they were home in their bed.

The moment hanging expectant, Steve claiming Bucky, the Widow studying them; silent dare for her to challenge.

"Bravo, Captain. He's yours apparently," rasped laugh cutting, "I would applaud your points scored but..." Sokolov displayed her mangled right hand, casual wave before tucking it in her pocket. Locked gazes keeping intent.

The grate of Sokolov's voice sending a tremor through Bucky's body, hard jerking against Steve. Metal fingers jarring loose from his palm, finger's caress of his beard withdrawn, cold air stealing shared warmth. Bucky's struggling turn to see her face.

Steve not letting go, fighting her control, reassuring caress of metal, cheek pressed to temple, hand soft embracing his head, keeping him close, whispered admonition, "Don't listen to her."

Bucky's staggered breath against his chest, tightening grip on his shoulder, tension building in the body he held close, hissed whisper to his ear, "Don't let me go."

"Not leaving, not letting go." Steve's quiet reassurance backing his hold. Wanting his body, his words to keep him safe.

Sokolov's gaze challenging, fleeting glimpse of annoyance quick morphed to aloof, not one fiber of her demeanor revealing her plans. Steve noticing one tell, faint twitch of a muscle at the corner of her mouth, subtle and unconscious. Her eyes purposeful drop from Steve's, a slow taunting run down Bucky's body, lingering study. Shoulder straining reach to hold to Steve, point of his hip open with the rise of his shirt, thigh close pressed to thigh; every sinew and taut muscle, hinted smirk as her look stayed too long on his groin, a final settling on the hair wrapped in Steve's fingers.

Sharp pain clenching Steve's gut, skin flushing anger at her taking of Bucky's body, air drawn in to speak, muscles clenching to move caught short by the tapping of her foot. Firm stamped sets of three, echoing off ceramic tiles, noise filling the room, distinct and deliberate. Three and three and three. Her smile curving cruel.

Steve cradling Bucky closer, fighting his struggle, holding the spreading tremor, determined to keep him from looking over his shoulder, trying to see her face. Hand bracing his jaw, arm tugging across his belly. Panic driving Bucky's writhe, shared ache bridging flesh to flesh, Steve taking his pain.

Hard pull to turn his head, mouths brushing close, Steve's open full taking, tongue slipping long and languid claiming Bucky's mouth. Teasing lips apart, flirting dip inside, teeth catching skin, pulling a faint hiss. Body struggle slowing, releasing the lip caught by his bite, soft licking comfort, knowing what his kiss would do, pushing his tongue deep and hard, hand entangling hair, not letting him fall away from the force of his embrace.

Steve's gaze never breaking with Sokolov's, silent resolve to keep eyes wide open, locking with hers. Bodies moving slow turn, purposeful window given for her to see, intimacy shared, making his claim.

Bucky's eyes closing, tension slow falling away, giving in to Steve's kiss, allowing his weight to lean heavy into his arms.

The Widow's cold stare watching, eyes not telling her thoughts, her foot going still, taunting echoes fading, sharp tic of her mouth revealing.

Heat flushing Steve's skin with Bucky's soft moan, breath warm filling his mouth, forcing eyes closed, pressing a deeper kiss, body wanting more, hard tugging, lifting his knees from the floor. Giving in to the moment, aching want of home and bed and Bucky; lost to her watching.

Sokolov's words too-close intruding, "He's very pretty, isn't he?"

Both jarring at the nearness of her voice, Steve's eyes fluttering open, body jerking in his arms. The Widow standing inches away, hand lifting strands of Bucky's hair, twirling in her fingers. Her smile near sincere, dark pupils full meeting Steve's, her murmur, "He was always a good fuck."

Steve's rise to his feet quick fluid movement, lifting Bucky with him, sharp turn to spin him away from her touch. Deliberate steps to block her view, her reach, wide stance taken keeping her from Bucky. Growled warning, "Enough."

Sokolov not backing away, holding her ground, inches from Steve.

Bucky intervening, "It's okay, I'm fine," hand grabbing Steve's arm, trying to pull him back, his words and tug not working to get his attention.

"Does he please you?" Coy smile insinuating.

"Stop talking about him." Step forward, closing the space, her not stepping back.

"Please don't do this," Bucky's staggered moves to keep them separate, blocked by Steve's arm, holding him at bay.

The tilt of her head implying curiosity, "I'm not talking about him, I'm asking you. Does he please you?"

Steve pointing, "You need to go back into that corner," Steps crowding her space.

Mother not giving him an inch, head falling back, her gaze slipping too slow up his chest to settle on his face, "Does he take care of you? Fulfill your needs?"

Bucky yanked on Steve's arm, jumping between them, metal fingers hard shoving the widow to stumble against the wall. Flesh palm flat on Steve's chest pressured lean trying to force a step back.

Steve grabbing Bucky's waist, hard pull to tuck him in behind "This conversation is over," Arm wrapping around to keep him pressed to his back.

Mother not relenting, "Love or lust, Captain, hard to tell them apart at times. I can see it in the flush on your cheeks. Your tone deepens, pupils expand. Passion? Is that what you think you feel for him? You'll throw him away someday, yes? Use him up like all the others and toss him aside." Knowing nod, raised eyebrow, hands folded settling the matter, "Then he will come home to me, just like he did this time. He will come home to Mother."

Anger driving Steve's darting move forward, "You are not his home, not his Mother."

Bucky wrestling to get ahead of him, blocking his steps, hands pressing chest, gripping shoulders, catching his face, forcing eyes to move to meet his own, desperate begging, "No. Don't do this. Please, please don't listen to her."

Steve's eyes darting to Bucky, drawn back to confront the Widow's relentless smirk. "You used him. You nearly destroyed him."

Letting the echo of his words die down, Sokolov countered with finality, "You gave him to me. You let him fall."

Steve's lunge towards the Widow, hard push against Bucky's hands, feet sliding with his force. Fists clenched, no words, anger turning features hard and cold.

Stopped by Bucky's shoulder, his arms around his waist, "No, no. NO, leave it. Leave it alone." Giving to the force of Bucky's body shoving him back, desperate words choked in his ear. "This is what she wants. Wants you angry, she's playing with you." They stumbled away from the Widow, arms tangled, holding to one another, staggering steps to end with Steve's shoulders pressed to the far wall, Bucky's weight full on his body.

Steve grabbing Bucky's arms, near shaking him, a bend to whisper his question, "And you? She's hurting you. Just by talking, by stomping

her god damned foot."

Roll of his head dismissive, "She's done worse. She's making progress."

Ducking to make eye contact, "Buck. Don't tell me you're defending her?"

Bucky shook his head, "I'm not. Nope," Palm laid flat on his chest, "I'm protecting you."

Steve's insistent, "She's not gonna hurt me," softened by Bucky's caress of his cheek.

Lip pulled into a bite, worry chasing sadness, Bucky whispering, "She already has."

"I don't need protection from her." Steve's firm words tempered by need, hands gripping Bucky's hips, pulling him near.

Thumb slow stroke of Steve's cheek, "If that's what you think then you're screwed." A finger careful placed on Steve's mouth when he drew in a breath to argue. Slow shake of his head, seconds passing, watching one another, final whisper, "No more." He crossed to the parcel in the sink, quick glance to check on the Widow, cold look warning. A mutter towards Steve, "How did you find me?"

"The horde of men running and pointing in this direction, yelling something about a long-haired guy with a metal arm covered in shit. Tasha provided the translation." Steve following, hands gripping Bucky's hips, fingers discreet finding his skin, a fight to quiet the fear he was losing him, "Buck, if you won't give this up, then where are we heading?"

"There is no we. Not in this." Bucky shaking his head, hard pressed to the sink by Steve's body, comforting lean into arms wrapping, "Mother and..." Steve's groan against his hair, changing his wording, "Her and I, we need to move. Now."

Steve's maneuvering Bucky, abrupt turn to bring them face-to-face, hands cupping his head, "You're not getting rid of me. Tell me where you're going? What do the numbers mean? What's his name?"

Stubborn denial, Bucky moving to pull his head from Steve's hold, "No. Not safe."

"Then why give me the coordinates?" Steve ducking to keep eye contact, not letting go, a leg holding him in place, "Why wait for me to follow you? Why show yourself, then run? You want me here. You want this. So knock off the games and let me help you."

A halfhearted struggle to wriggle free, Bucky trying to avoid Steve's gaze, "I've been off my meds, remember? Poor decision-making."

Steve holding him pressed against the sink, lifting his head, thumbs deep stroking faint stubble, "Bullshit." Hard words, soft-spoken so close his breath warmed Bucky's mouth, "Where are we going? What's his name?"

Reluctant pulling hands from his face, Bucky pressed his lips to Steve's wrist, lingering take of his skin, flirting tongue to sensitive flesh; intimacy hidden from the Widow by the fall of his hair.

The kiss taking Steve's resolve, weakening muscled tightness, "Don't do this. Come home."

Words spoken against Steve's skin, "I need to move, we've been here too long." A slow struggle to break from his grip, Bucky turned to open the parcel.

Insistent following, Steve's hand slipping across Bucky's back, fingers looping over his waistband, a tug to shake his body, "I am not leaving." Taking the space over Bucky's shoulder, arm pulling at his waist, studying his face, breath purposeful warm on his cheek.

Torn by Steve's touch, his eyes watching him, trying to keep his focus, Bucky rough pulling open the muck soaked parcel, digging to drag free the inner packet, sorting quick through the contents piece after piece. "Fine, then follow me from a distance, not talking to me, no interfering, no coming to the rescue..." words stopped by the passport in his hand.

Steve seeing his hesitation, "Is that him? The Architect?" A quick grab of the document, wrestling it from Bucky's fingers, hard struggle to take it away, he held it up to stare at the yellowed picture. One arm fighting Bucky's pull to slide from his grip, the other holding the worn passport up to the light, heartbeats pounding at his temple, letting the image sink into his mind; blue eyes, clean-shaved, blond man, broad-shoulders, clear echo of himself, sending the cold of nausea to sit deep in his gut. He closed the old passport and threw it in the sink.

Bucky stopping his fight of Steve's hold, keeping his eyes on the papers in his hands, words spoken a hesitant whisper, "I figured it out after a while. It wasn't you." Slow, ragged breath keeping emotions in check, "I was sick, confused." Faint shrug, metal fingers prying at the hand that held him in place, trying to loosen his hold, "I should have known it wasn't you. I'm a fool."

Steve's firm countering, "No. No, you're not."

Bucky shaking his head, "They said you were dead; then there you were. I just wanted you, wanted you to be there. Alive. I'm sorry..."

"Stop." Steve cutting him off, "They lied to you. They did this. Not you." Catching his cheek, needing to see his face, have their eyes connect, Bucky resisting. Steve grabbing his shoulders, pulling him around, adamant, "Look at me."

Slow reluctance, Bucky allowing the pull of his body, eyes darting up then away, not wanting to face him, both knowing the history of the First Handler, the one that resembled Steve.

Two hands catching Bucky's face, pushing him back, falling against the sink with the drive of Steve's body, an arm possessive wrapping his neck, a mouth covering his own, stealing his breath, weight pressing insistent. Bucky opening his legs, hands full taking Steve's ass, tucking him in, breaking sweat across bodies tight bound. Desperate attempt at erasing the past.

Sokolov's loud tsk doing nothing to stop their embrace.

Faint click of the door, not startling, both hearing the familiar soft tap. Steve breaking the kiss, quick turn, hand pressed to Bucky's chest, body blocking anyone's access.

Bucky pulling the knife from the small of his back, ready waiting.

Slender finger curling around the door's edge, dark red nails recognizable, Natasha following to slip into the room, efficient gaze taking them in before closing the door behind her. "Boys. You might want to move the reunion to the jet. That is if we're going back to the jet. Company's on their way." Her gaze falling deliberate on the Widow, not returning the thin smile. "Sam just spotted three cars pulling in, they're out front, and one's on their way to the back. We don't have much time."

"Great. You texted them didn't you?" Purposeful turn towards Sokolov, Bucky extending his hand, "Give me the phone."

The Widow's answer a shrug, hands dug deep in her pockets, not moving.

Bucky's purposeful stride, one hand extended the other with the knife, heading straight for her, "You forget something Widow. A lesson you taught me. If you can't get the job done clean, then kill everything in your way until the job is done." Steps ending one boot stubbing her toe, the knife point clinking against the wall a hair from her neck. Bucky staring down, low growl, "You are getting in my way."

Sokolov's head pressed to the wall, gaze not flinching. A reach into her pocket, "I remember that lesson, you learned it well," She dropped the phone into his hand.

Bucky's turn to walk away a near stumble, Steve hovering close behind him.

"You forgot the most important part, Soldat." Mother calling as they moved across the room, "Your life is expendable."

Sidelong look exchanged with Steve, catching the worry that crossed his face, Bucky slipped the knife into its sheath, grabbing his sweater to tug over his head. "Gotta go."

Steve's firm statement, "I'm going with you."

"No. You're not." Jacket pulled on; gun tucked at his belly, money, and papers shoved in the backpack, he tossed it over his shoulder. Bucky glanced towards Sokolov, a wag of his head to call her over.

Steve grabbing his arm, hissed demand, holding him back from the door, "Where are you going?"

Bucky not pulling away, reluctant turn to face him, internal debate playing across his features, worry morphing to sadness. Fingers to Steve's cheek, a thumb's slow caress of his lip. Metal hand catching his waist, hard pulling him close, mouths brushing intimate, eyes open watching, giving in to the ache of needing him near.

Steve holding his breath, not wanting the moment to break, hoping Bucky would relent.

Softness filing Bucky's eyes, telling of a decision made, tongue darting a stolen tease of Steve's mouth, his words whispered hot against his skin, "Khabarovsk 1. Train 306. You'll need passports. And, you can't be with me."

Bucky's open mouth taking, tongue slipping deep, making the wetness last, slow caress of Steve's mouth, stealing the taste of him. A kiss revealing his fear full knowing they might not get this again. Wanting it to last, to be remembered. Teeth raking Steve's lip as he pulled away by a breath.

Metal fingers digging into Steve's ass, near to lifting his leg, hips pressing close, Bucky unable to let go. Shared breaths panted warm to mouths flirting close. Foreheads pressing, Steve's admission, "I know what you're doing. You think we won't see..."

Patting Steve's cheek, gaze dropping to his mouth, thumb stealing a caress of his lip, "Just need your taste in my mouth, Rogers, that's all. Just need to remember how you taste."

Steve closing his eyes, fingers dug over Bucky's waistband, "You're an asshole, let me go with you."

Bucky leaning near, mouth pressed to Steve's ear, breath pulled in sending a shiver across his skin, softest of whispers meant only for his hearing, "Lubov moya," gentle fingers raking through his hair, hinting a smile, "You'll see me on the train."

Cold air brushed his cheek, fingers pried from his grip on Bucky's pants, Steve opening his eyes to see Bucky slipping away hood over his hair, Sokolov a step ahead, the door soft closing behind him.

"I'm heading back to Sam; we'll do what we can to buy him time." Natasha's voice breaking his inertia.

Steve split-seconds staring at the door, a mutter more for himself, "How can he tell me to fuck off and still make me ache like this?"

Natasha's

frowned confusion slipping past his attention. She followed Bucky out into the barn.

Steve's step to follow held up, a turn to examine the contents of the sink. Hesitant fingers picking up the passport, flipping it open to check the markings, faded Hydra symbol in the corner, no time to think it through, near to throwing it in the trash. Last second tucking it in his jacket, he headed out the door. 

Angered Cyrillic voices approaching, pulling their attention. Bucky grabbing the Widow's collar pushing her forward, a rush without rushing towards the far end of the barn. Gaze studying what lay ahead, stealing a look behind, efficient assessment of his surroundings. Heading for their escape. Silent regret at the lack of options, firm resolve to not get anyone hurt.

A wave of clattering noise flowing down the center aisle, marking the passing of the remnants of Hydra, searching and gaining ground. Rough pulling at men along the way, horse's hooves skittering on brick pavers, shouted arguments, other voices soft calming frightened animals. The men out-of-place making their way methodical closer.

Heart pounding heat across his skin, focus narrowing down, task at hand, escaping with the Widow. Sounds of pursuit getting closer. Bucky feeling out of place. Quick pace slowed by a frightened horse's dancing cross-tied in the aisle, Sokolov slipping from his grip.

Metal fingers stroking the animal's neck, unconscious movement, trying to settle its fear. Soft whispered words in Russian, "It's okay, I'm sorry, sorry." Steps needing caution. Time ticking in his head. The horse gradual settling, sweat springing on its chest. Ancient memories teasing Bucky's mind, flash of whiteness, frigid air wrapping around his waking dream. A horse taking him across an empty landscape, mingled breathes visible in cold air, the dulling of sounds that comes with the fall of a heavy snow.

Shaking his head, Bucky breaking from old memories, pulling him into the now. Furtive glance towards harsh voices rapidly approaching, confusion building at his back. Attention turning towards the Widow, her nearly at the door, far out of his reach. Breaths sounding loud and rhythmic in his head.

Bucky intently listening mingled sounds surrounding, approaching heavy footfalls, distinct, familiar voices; Natasha's laugh wrapping her Cyrillic words, Wilson's playing the tourist, struggling with a saddle, working to slow the advance of his pursuers.

Steve's voice not in the mixture, Bucky still knowing he was close, feeling his presence, hovering shadowed person not far away. Never doubting Steve. Sensing his gaze locked on his back. Hoping he'd stay out of it, not giving to the urge of turning around. Steps quickening as he slipped past the horse, bright light spilling just ahead. Nearly at the door.

Eyes catching a glimpse of Mother crossing over the threshold, brick giving way to hard packed dirt, her steps coming to a halt. Calculated turn to look back at him. Gaze connecting.

Too far from his hand to stop her when the dark car skidded to a stop. Doors opening urgent, weapons held out in the open. Bucky's hand discreet slipping beneath his sweater, fingering the gun at his belly. Heart beating in his ears drowning all sounds except for Steve, inches from his back whispering, "Don't trust her."

One hand palm open at his side, hoping Steve would follow his cue to wait. Bucky held his breath conscious counting sets of three. Time standing still.

Mother's eyes turning bright, faint smile not revealing, letting him stand there building a sweat, to see what she would do. Deliberate turn to the car, her words rapid-fire Cyrillic, the men looking around, attentive listening. Her turning towards the barn gaze shifting to Bucky, lingering look seconds too long, forcing a tight gut-wrenching pain.

"Fuck," muttered close, palm wrapping the stock of the gun, cautious tug to pull it free. One step forward, muscles going taut, bracing. Her hand coming up, finger pointing, nearly direct at this chest. Sending the tremor through his body, caught sharp by Steve's palm on his back.

A wild grandmotherly wave of her hand in his direction, "Pasha, I'll be right there. These nice men asked me a question, dear. Be patient with your babushka." Sokolov's voice shrilling sweet with her turn towards the barn, a sweeping gesture to point at the snow-packed field, "There, down there. I saw him running, a disgusting young man, dirty hair, disheveled. Yes, he went across that field. Scared those poor animals."

Steve's voice near Bucky's ear, "What the hell?"

Bucky shaking his head, not turning around, "What are you still doing here? Go away. What part of don't be with me do you not understand?"

Hurried stride forward to stop at her feet, her hair knot meeting his armpit. He waited for her to look up. A slight nod, eyes narrowed, taking her in, he added in Russian, "Let the games begin." Extended hand to ask her to get in the car, she slid across to the passenger's seat.

Bucky jumping in beside her, gear thrown in reverse, heavy foot to the pedal, hard turn of the wheel, slammed short when Steve stepped in front of the car.

"Just wait. One second. Wait." Steve pointing one finger, hesitant move not willing to get out his way, rush to get to the passenger door, yanking it open. Curt demand of the Widow, "Move."

Her turn to get out stopped by his directive, "No. move over."

Bucky insistent, "No, no, no."

Steve equally firm, "Yes, yes, yes. There is no way I'm leaving you alone with her."

"Damn it, Steve." Forehead dropping to the steering wheel.

Sokolov's curious gaze moving from one to the other before she slid to the middle of the seat.

Steve climbing in, a hard slam of the door, gaze intent straight ahead, "I think we should go now. They're coming back."

Bucky stepping on the gas, the car picking up speed, back end slipping on frozen dirt, racing towards the front gate.

 _"I am not entirely sure how to score this round. Mother definitely, maybe four? The Captain, admiral first go a strong two. Soldat - Zero. Again."_

Cedar slats covering the surfaces; walls, floor, ceiling. Steam wafting from the cold water's dousing of heated rocks in the center of the sauna. Layered benches climbing upwards, streams of hot wetness swirling higher to crawl across the darkened redwood topping the room.

Men lounging on the lower benches, some lying, others sitting, towels discreet covering. One man sitting above the rest, head brushing the ceiling. Legs spread wide, body lean, muscled form, genitals displayed, daring any eye to fall on his body — no one taking that dare.

The messenger fully dressed stepping uncertain into the space, ducking his head, trying to see beyond the misty clouds. Sweat beading fast, dripping down his face, wetting the armpits of his shirt. Discomfort showing, averted eyes, stuttered voice, cracking, waiting for his invitation to speak.

A young man lounging on the lower bench calling across the chamber, "Too modest to strip? Or you're not here for the steam."

The messenger pulled the hat from his head, holding it rolled in his hands, "I'm not here for the steam. No. I have a message. From an old friend." A permission-seeking glance at the guard standing by the doorway toweled as the others, hands crossed in a modest pose, his gaze a cold assessment.

Shuffled feet, taking a dared step closer, warned off by the glare of the guard. "Yes. Yes, of course. The old woman has returned. She has a message."

The younger man laughing, "Old woman? We're not interested in old women here." His answer gaining a small ripple of agreement from his compatriots in the group.

A gruff voice near the middle of the tiers asking with hardness, "Who are you talking about?"

His voice with a hint of concern, "Gieta Sokolov. She served the old order for many years."

A different voice from the middle of the steam, "Sokolov? Who the hell is that?"

The man more boldly answering, "Agent Sokolov. Agent for Hydra. The Black Widow."

The young man sitting up, his voice full of disdain, "They're scattered, a mess. They couldn't control that rouge assassin of theirs; he cost us a fortune. The one they drove insane. Serves them right for not putting him out of his misery."

Gruff voice cutting him short, "What could an old woman have that Mr. Petrovitch would want?"

The guard stepping forward to stand close to his back, pressuring hard flesh to sweat-soaked clothing, "Get to the point. Mr. Petrovitch is getting impatient."

"I've spoken with her. She is bringing you a gift. Right now as we speak, she is on her way. She brings you the Asset. The Winter Soldier. Returning to your control."

Silence fell as dense as the air. The messenger shifted his body, gaze straining to see their faces, the change in the room a palpable chill.

Near imperceptible twitch of a fingertip, the man sitting at the top of the sauna, the single indication of a directive given. No further hint of hearing the messenger's news, eyes not shifting from his stare straight ahead, appearing unmoved and unimpressed with his visitor.

"Thank you for your service," The guard's hand on his shoulder, a guide to showing him out, soon slipping to encircle his neck, tightening embrace. Strangled gasping for air, hands flailing, feet kicking panicked struggle not long or worthy of his opponent. Desperate clinging to the last glimpse of life, not successful as he fell heavy and done to the floor.


	18. Chapter 18 It's Complicated

Wounds not addressed fester over time. Tony Stark staring, bloodshot eyes dry from missing sleep, obsessive focus; know your enemy. Hydra's data, the Soldier's past, family snapshots; cold sweat chasing heated anger, finding his life entangled with those that he loathed.

Translucent computer images following him room to room, hanging suspended in the air, ghosts he manipulated with a flick of a finger, relief from the haunting within his control. Still choosing to watch, stare, calculate in the name of his research; not admitting to himself the macabre fascination, wanting the fire of his hurt to continue its burn. One grainy video loop fueling his singular rage, familiar flesh hand tightening around his mother's throat.

"Four hundred fifty-four hours, eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. That's 18.91666 days give or take a few six's, eight minutes and twenty-eight seconds." Finger to his temple, gaze riveted on dark history replayed in the air. Countdown ticking incessant embedded in the corner of the screen, "twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five," Stark's words directed at the phone tucked between the bottles lining the shelf behind a bar. "Calendar is marked, big fat red sharpie circle, virtual, not paper. GPS locked and loaded."

Exaggerated curving of his back, hands grip of chin and head, cracking his neck, "Why not now? Reasons. Mine and yours. Let's see; It's a dirty job. He's an assassin. Was, an assassin. One man instead of an army. He's cheap. We don't have to feed him apparently - My word. I gave it." A nod for the voice speaking in his ear, eyes rolling for himself, "No hurting Rogers. Let him finish his mission." Hands on the bar, gaze drawn to the rhythmic changing numbers, "18.8999 days to go, clock's ticking loud, in my head, not for real, too annoying, that constant tick-tick-tick. Yes, hyper-aware of that clock."

Slow pace, hands raking hair, "Trust him? No." Aching stare at the fear frozen on his mother's face, voice tight, "I trust what I see. He accomplishes what he sets out to finish." Tony letting seconds pass, the caller's words overridden by the rush of blood to his head.

"What? Going soft? Only around the middle. Not enough sit-ups. His location? Yes. He took my jet, I know exactly where he is. Listen, I'm asking you to trust me. Bigger picture here. He's going after something significant, not clear yet, I have my suspicions. This could benefit all of us. Why waste resources when he's an - asset. For now anyway."

Abrupt end of his steps gaze caught on the red book inches from his hand on the bar, purposeful about-face, "Look, there's no rush to arrest him. Yes, it's me saying that. I've seen him up close. He's not - not who he was. Still a threat, still a piece of … Agreed, still a fugitive. Needs to be cuffed, curtailed and thrown in jail. In four hundred fifty-three hours, forty-five minutes, and twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one seconds..."

Deep breath drawn, "Rogers? He won't understand. He wouldn't approve." Slow exhaled, "Let me deal with him."

Tony stared at the image on the phone, "Barnes? Won't be a problem. He gave me his word. Are you calling me a fool? I'm deeply offended. You do realize you're not my first fool accusation?"

Digging the earbud from his ear, his thumb switching the phone to the speaker, Tony's voice working for casual curious, worry sitting deep-seated hidden from his tone, "You never said how you found his location?"

Secretary Ross's words surrounded by a laugh, "I have my contacts, Stark. Just like you. Not about to give away my sources. I'll expect updates. It would be awkward to have to step in, to send a team to go get them. International intrigues, messy. Let's keep this clean, low-key. Agreed?"

"Clean. Yup. I'm clean, ask Pepper, super clean." Tony swiping a finger across Ross's picture shoving the call to an end, eyes closing for seconds, breath held then blown out ragged, a reach for the nearest bottle.

Thick amber liquid pouring, slow-motion circling within the weighted crystal glass. Daylight laying a heated swatch through the room, glinting reflections from the single frozen cube dropped inattentive, splashing errant drops on a hand, spilling random to pool on the polished steel of the bar.

Palm laid flat on hot metal, memories flashing forward, deep sand, baking sun, throat swollen with thirst not satisfied; Tony's waking dream reliving his time in the desert, held against his will, aching for his freedom. Reluctant seconds to linger on a parallel watched countless times in his lab. Nameless men dragging the man he hated, limbs weak, identity erased, not fighting the ritual, body strapped into a chair.

"Irony is a necessity apparently," words spoken to settling scotch. Gaze darting to the book, far end of the bar; black star etched in red leather. Small against the scale of Stark's opulent room, demanding his attention beyond the scope of its size, "And you, you just stay out of this." Accusing finger pointed towards the chronicle of the Soldier's torture.

Faint tremor averted by Tony's clenching of his fist, the bottle placed not far from his reach. One finger's affectionate caress, glass neck unresponsive, a pointed directive to not wander off. Edge of his hand gathering amber spill, unconscious licking, obsessive recovery of each minuscule drop. The mirror behind the bar, harsh reflection stopping him short, hand to mouth hungered sucking, a holding of the pose, faltering under his own judgmental eye.

A shifting of his focus taking in the computer's frozen image hovering suspended in the middle of the room, his mother's last breath etched in sepia-toned time. Angered swipe to move past her last moments, the pictures slipping by to settle on a figure kneeling at the gated entrance to his home.

Tony's breath caught sharp at the glaring juxtaposition. Long hair, soaking wetness dripping over palms held open, Bucky slumping defeated too drunk to find his way to the facility's open door. Voice rasped and shaking, rambling words repeated, "I'm sorry, so sorry, please open the gate. Please, I deserve this." Abrupt cutting of the sound, not stopping the echo of Bucky's guilt, Tony muttering, "Pathetic," as he tilted the glass to watch the ice chasing itself in swirling liquid.

Sharp pain of connection, Tony's ghosted reminder of knees hitting the floor, too far gone to stay standing. Arms wrapping cold porcelain, fogged memories of things he'd said and done wrapped in his own drinking. Shaming regrets still gripping his chest.

Disdain holding tight to his mind, Stark's accusing finger pointed at Bucky, "You and I have nothing in common." Dismissive wave of his hand, "Nothing." Abrupt wag of his head, "Excuse me? What did you say?" Exaggerated lean as if the image had spoken; his words stuttered reluctant, "Rogers? Don't hurt him? You do have balls, don't you."

Contemplative hold of the tumbler to shimmer in the setting sun, "Don't hurt the former friend," Vague salute towards Bucky's kneeling image, "Now your friend. Captain America. No, wait," cool glass pressed to his forehead, "Not Cap, not anymore," Glass lifted towards the figure suspended, "Thanks to you. Just mundane Steve Rogers."

"What? Say again?" Brow furrowed in mock confusion, moving to smooth when he answered himself, "Yup, you're right about one thing. Nothing mundane about Rogers."

Tony's gaze falling on the scotch's refracted light before bringing the liquid to his lips. Numbing wetness slipping across his tongue, ice bouncing against his mouth, chastising thought to take it slow, quick overruled by his mind's replaying of screams torn from a Soldier's throat. An open mouth pull of the liquid and ice, empty glass thudding on the bar.

"I tried scream therapy once, well not officially." Eyes squeezed shut, hands spread to lean on the surface, savoring the burn taking his throat. "Unofficially in the hanger bay. Two in the morning, doors shut, excellent echo." Gaze shifting back to his virtual companion, "There's something relieving about a good primal scream. Don't you agree?"

Purposeful cross to stand inches from the shimmering picture, Bucky's face hidden by his hair, silent witness to Stark's monologue, "What you did. Those screams, in that machine, now that was primal." A finger wagged sloppy, poking through Bucky's body hanging suspended in front of his face, "Not the same kind of primal. I'll give you that."

Tony embracing the veil of disconnection that too much alcohol brings; still not enough to blacken-out sepia-toned torture clicking methodical across his memory. Purposeful flip of his wrist to chase the kneeling image aside, replaced by another; Bucky standing in his lab, tangled mess of hair, thumbs wrapped in the hem of his sweater; gray eyes faint glimmer of his pain, unfaltering gaze locked with his own.

Slow steps circling Bucky, Tony passing through the image letting it play bright to dark across his body, "Hydra liked their documentation. You remember, don't you? Pictures snapping, I saw you blink, you know, from the flash; old school, blinded by that white dot burned into your retinas. Movies, the camera loved you, very photogenic, the cameraman not so much. Shaky hand, you'd think Hydra would invest in tripods. Yup all kinds of memorabilia right up to the time they sold you. Nothing from Pierce, more of a businessman, not a scientist. Leave no trace behind."

Veering from his circle heading towards the far end of the bar, "Data quantification, algorithms, speculations; meticulous indisputable evidence of their success and failures," finger rhythmic emphasis to metal with each point made as he slow approached the end of the bar. Last tap landing decisive in the center of the black star on the book, "The bastards took notes on everything."

Lingering gaze on bound leather, one finger pushing it along the metal as he

wandered back to the bottle. Next drink poured, ice added, glass cradled possessive; an offhand remark, "Oh, hey, not being rude. I'd offer you a drink but, well, Rogers tells me you're on medications, I'd hate to be the cause of your decompensation - more, decompensating more."

Slow pace of the room, tightening circle of Bucky's image, words spoken with clinical efficiency, "Strength, resilience, heart rate, how long you could go without eating or drinking, or - taking a shit." A pause to gaze purposeful, connecting with Bucky's frozen stare, "One particularly gruesome test. Recovery time."

Glass held up, gentle swirl of the liquid, pinkie finger pointed towards Bucky's face, "Right. Recovery time. Give you chills? Did me, I'll admit it." Voice lowered to share a secret, "Just between us."

Tony studied the amber liquid, seconds passing, "Your healing rate is close to Rogers'. How do I know that you ask?" Affirmative nod, "Good question - They filmed it. Knife to the gut, gunshot to the shoulder, broken femur, collar bone, arm, the other arm," glass raised to drink, aborted, jaw tightening, words gritted, anger showing safe with only Bucky's image as a witness, "All purposeful. All done in the name of their god-damned science."

Tony's gaze shifting towards the setting sun, deep breath, words rasped quietly, "Then film the healing; ticking clock, white coats all standing around, clipboards in hand, watching - not helping, not stopping it, just watching you." Quick glance towards his silent listener, "You're a quiet bastard when they're not frying your brain."

One finger dipped in the scotch, brought to his mouth, licking taste, he stared out the window again, "No pain meds, no stick to chew on, not even CNN to offer inane distractions. Wide awake through it all." Voice trailing quiet, silence filling the room, focus slow return to Bucky's image, "You already know this. If you remember it." Jaw tightening, studied gaze, stepping closer, question bordering on curious sincere, "Have you shared this shit with Rogers?"

Letting seconds pass before gulping down the scotch, abrupt turn back to the bar, tumbler clunking with metal, "Sick bastards," mumbled to himself.

Tony poured another drink, "Alright let's get serious here. I can acknowledge some, I said some sympathy. Yes, there is evidence, indisputable in its completeness and objectivity since I opened the file myself, but, now listen to me you pathetic excuse of humanity," sudden move of his arm shooting out towards the screen, hand wrapping the threat of the gauntlet, finger angry pointed at Bucky's virtual head, "You did it. None of that gave you the right. It doesn't get you off the hook. No. You are not forgiven."

Glass in hand, steps prowling forward and back, one-sided confrontation, "I want to know something, Barnes. You piece of shit. If you could heal like that. If you can fight the way, I've seen on these tapes, in real life. Why the fuck didn't you fight them? Why not kill them all? Why let them do that? You should have killed every last one of them for what they did - to you. Made you - fuck it. You did it, not them. Fuck you."

Glimmer of empathy no match for his resentment. Hard wave of his gauntlet hand across Bucky's vacant stare forcing it to cycle away allowing a return to him kneeling at the gate. Tony's jaw setting tight, gaze skeptical study of the man he hated, snow surrounding, flakes hanging suspended, the wetness of his clothing evident, darkened patterns covering thighs and shoulders, the cold seeping through the image to settle in his bones.

Reflexive shiver triggering the repulsor to whine its firing warning, heated glow building in his palm. Stark staggering back, eyes blinking erratic, coming close to razing the carpet. The jolt of sound and heat and electrified energy coursing up his arm calling him back from the brink of his rage. Conscious effort to make the gauntlet fade back into his watch, deep breath held, eyes closing, searching for the center of his calm.

Tony finding his voice, "Intense. You bring the worst out in me. Let's change the topic. How about a virtual tour." Beckoning wave with the glass, "Since you're in Russia and yes I know that. And yes I know you slammed my jet into a pile of horse dung. Hilarious, Barnes. I'm sure your back pay will cover it. Oh wait, you're an international criminal, you don't get back pay. Oops. Maybe Rogers will loan it to you."

Tony crossing the room, "This is the closest you'll get to movie night, so pay attention." A step through thick doors into the theater, sounds muffled, pinpointed light spreading ahead of his path, guiding his steps, dimming out when he flopped in the over-stuffed chair. Head lolling to embrace the headrest, scotch-tinged vision staring at the ceiling, a mumbled direction to the room, "Resume the Tales of Winter," he bought the glass to his lips.

Darkness yielding to Hydra's secrets playing in the air around him, "I'll give you this, Barnes, there is a treasure trove of data from that dump." Tony studying the images, hyper-focus staggering under the weight of his distraction. Real-time data falling victim to the past, dead-end weapons deals losing to the sounds of Bucky's screams. Attention faltering, Stark starting the looping images over again, searching for the key to finding Hydra's remnants, twists and turns meant to hide true identities; his attention pulled repetitive to faded snapshots of people thought to be long dead.

One image catching his attention, "Is that you Barnes? The hippie-hair is a dead giveaway and the leather. Do you even know what a hippie is?" Eyes squinting in the darkness, pointed exam of each faded person, "Who's your girlfriend? Although she looks more like a nanny I had, age 10, no maybe 12. Not that kind of cool nanny you know, or maybe you don't know. The constipated kind, never smiled, loud snoring, corporal punishment if she could get away with it."

Tony stood to examine the picture closer, fingers manipulating the image, focus changing, sharp to dull, bright to soft, working to see their faces, "So she's definitely not a girlfriend, not with that stun prod in her hands unless you were into that sort of thing. Maybe when I was partying hard, maybe. Given your history, I doubt this was consensual." A finger pinch to resize the lower corner bringing smeared lettering into focus. Glasses pulled from a pocket he tsk'd his frustration, moving his head, squatting to bring the lettering into focus, slow reading the word aloud, sounding the syllables with care, "Pe-tro-vit-ch."

The name tickling his memory. Nagging sense of answers dancing just outside of his reach, Tony allowing the glass to drop to the floor, the phone dug from his pocket. "I did take a solemn oath of fealty and word of honor, cross my arc reactor heart and hope to not die. But, let's see. One: you lied. Two: You broke my jet. Three: You broke my jet with dung. Four: You hung up on me. Five: You lied. Cheeky bastard."

Seconds of hesitation as he dialed Steve's number, eyes riveted on the faded image, memory searching history, why the name seemed familiar. Ross's threats looming close. Stark hoping Steve would take his call. Thoughts churning with uncertainty, why he'd even care to warn them, thumb brushing the screen, second thoughts bringing him close to abandoning the call.

The phone's ring jarring despite being tucked inside Steve's jacket, the noise grating on nerves; tickling his skin, quick search to mute the distraction. Back turned to Bucky, reluctant attempt to honor his demands, holding his touch, staying as close as he would allow, feeding his need to protect him. Gaze casual scanning the crowd, bouncing on his toes playing the tourist, his eye watching for the men they'd seen at the barn.  
Sokolov equidistant between them, the trio tucked in a corner, ignored by the hurried train station crowd intent on their destinations.

Bucky embracing history, thoughts, and body slipping into the skin of the Soldier, holding anxiety at bay, metal hand tucked in his pocket, outward calm hiding the wrenching twist in his gut. Steady review of the cavernous place, white marbled pillars, walls of glass windows, the din of the crowd bouncing loud and grating in his hearing. Slight tilt of his head to accommodate the ringing in his ear, sharp pissed-off glance at the Widow, the giver of his pain, effort spent sorting through the cacophony of sounds.

Side-long look assessing; A squat, balding man catching his eye, awkward stance, facing the opposite of all the travelers, hands empty of bags or parcels, telling bulge under his jacket; cold gaze searching select faces, men that fit Bucky's look; elderly women. The man pulling forward bitter memories crowding conscious thought; nameless angry men looming through his history.

Sweat clinging cold to Bucky's T-shirt, a shiver quick hidden, counting seconds in sets of three, knowing the man's gaze would find them soon. Rasped whisper meant for Steve, cautious turn to face him, "You need to go, now. Take her with you. I'll cover you." Hand digging in his pocket, pulling a rolled ball of rubles, covert discretion, shoving them in Steve's hands, "Get tickets to Moscow, third class, train 306, get her on there. Just don't let her out of your sight. Don't talk to her, don't listen to her. Really don't look at her. Just, just..."

Steve's phone ringing again, one hand pushing the money in his pocket, the other silencing the interruption. Assessing glance across the crowd, half-step nearer to Bucky, "Really? It's gonna be hard to keep an eye on her if I can't look at her."

"Funny. Very funny," feet shuffling anxious, hand moving under the sweater, reassuring caress of the Glock. Quick tremor taking his body a shrug to chase it away. Steps bringing him near Steve, shoulder

brushing shoulder, body drawn to his heat. Bucky's words low and rapid, close to Steve's ear, "Trust me, she'll pluck the eyes out of your head so fast your brain will see her toss them in the trash, she'll steal your thoughts, put her own voice in there, she'll twist your mind..."

Steve's worried turn reaching for Bucky's cheek, held back when he flinched away at the phone's insistent demands. Steve fumbling to quiet the buzzing, leaning closer, cautious question, "Buck, I hate to ask this. When? The last dose. When?"

Bucky running fingers through his hair, shaking his head, gaze wandering disorganized, settling apprehensive on Steve, "I can't remember. Not long ago - I think."

Sokolov's terse interruption, "Four hours. On the jet."

"What?" Bucky not hiding his annoyance.

Back straightening, the Widow not turning to face them, her gaze scrutinizing the crowded terminal, "You took pills four hours ago. we were on the jet." Her tone laced cold and clinical, "Your blood serum levels are clearly sub-optimal, perhaps you need a higher dose."

"That's enough." Steve's words meant for the Widow, his steps towards Bucky, moving him back to press against the wall. Gentle insistence, "Take them now, you need water? I'll get you water. Take them."

"I'm fine. Fine, too soon. It's too soon. Steve, please. Leave. I don't want them to see you. Get on the train."

"I'm not leaving you." Steve's reach needing fingertips to brush against skin.

"Don't..." Bucky's darting gaze towards his hand, not stopping Steve. Catching his cheek, fingers slipping into hair, tight grip chasing to cradle his neck, touch melting stubborn resolve. Forcing eyes shut, hand catching Steve's, palm pressed to mouth hungered taste of skin.

Breath pulled in audible short, Steve's step closer, drawn in by Bucky's kiss. His wanting more interrupted.

Sokolov barging nearly between them, neck straining up, hissing at Steve, "You know nothing about this place, the enemy you fight. He knows. He keeps telling you. Over and over." A crippled finger pointing, warned away by Steve's withering glance, "You don't listen to him. These men will kill you. Torture you first for our entertainment. Then kill you. Go home, Captain. Your hovering over him is sickening, drawing attention. You weaken him."

Steve's thin smile close guarding his anger, "I know all I need to know. I trust him. Not you. I have his back. You don't. I am not going home without him. And definitely not with you."

Sokolov not backing down, "Then do what he asks. Get us on the train."

His hand still wrapping Bucky's neck, tangled in his hair, Steve's cold stare directed at the Widow, "Trust me, I intend on getting all of us on that train."

"Stop it, please." Bucky's arm snaking between them pressured push to move Steve away from her, shrugging free of his hold. Anxious gaze moving from an entrance to the Widow, "Woman, I will find a way to do this without you if you don't back off."

Sokolov's muttered Cyrillic sigh, "Soldat, you're a mess."

Bucky returning her mutter, "Yes, not gonna disagree. Help me out for once. Watch for your friends, without waving at them."

Facing Steve, Bucky's fingers possessive catch of a belt loop, gaze searching his face, wanting to fall into his arms, caution holding the distance, "Rogers, you need to go. You're not leaving me. I'll be right behind you."

Steve's worry showing, furrowed brow, jaw twitch, words resigned, "Fine. You win. You win." Digging an earpiece from his pocket, gaze dropping to his hand, long sigh before looking up to meet Bucky's gaze. Not able or willing to hide the hint of wetness adding a sheen to his eyes, a step to bring chest brushing chest, cautious reach towards Bucky's ear, "Let me put this in, please. Like on the jet. Only I won't, I won't lick your neck out here in public. Wear this so we can talk, I can talk to you. Humor me, please. I can bug the shit out of you, no answering. You can stay as quiet as you want. Give me this."

Bucky slight wag of his head, murmuring, "I hate that thing. Lick me instead."

Steve's laugh overridden by his need to keep going, "I know, pal. I'd prefer the licking too, but right now, I need you to do this. Do it for me. I, I have to hear you, hear you breathe. I need to listen to you, every word, every sound."

"Snoring? Not that I snore. That's you."

"Even if it's snoring, it's all good. Okay? For me."

Bucky's gaze intense studying Steve's face, worry marring the smooth of his brow, cheeks blush of pink, curve of his mouth, the lay of his beard. Tender finger's brush of lips, ghosted memory of his kiss, skin slipping under his palm, warmth spreading comfort, careful thumb to lashes, soft pulling the tear. Bucky nodding his agreement.

Careful brushing long hair behind an ear, Steve attempting to be discreet, gazes locked intent, soft caress of a cheek stolen. Bucky's eyes closing, head leaning into his hand shared aching pain of want, both needing more, holding back. The earpiece nestled in place, taking longer than needed, not long enough.

Steve's hand lingering caress of skin, cheek to neck to chest before falling away, eyes staying too long connected, ignoring the press of urgency and Sokolov's impatient tapping of her foot.

Their moment interrupted, "Tell Barnes he owes me a new pair of sneakers," Sam's voice jarring.

Steve catching Bucky's arms as he swung to bump his forehead to the wall, "Now is not a good time Sam."

Wilson not taking the cue, "Horse shit. Fresh. I stepped in it. It's embedded up to my laces. Squished down in so my socks are brown. Did you get that damn earbud in his ear? Barnes are you there? Fine, don't answer me. I'll say it anyway."

Steve redirecting, "Sam, can you just hold that thought?"

"No. Nope I can't. Barnes. I hate you."

Bucky's reach to pull the earpiece from its place, stopped short by Steve wrestling with his wrist. He mouthed, "Let it ride. He'll get over it. For me, it's for me."

Natasha joining the conversation, "I'm at the station. So are the bad guys. You need to move."

"Tasha we're about to..." Steve's words cut short by the return of the phone's vibration. Finally relenting, digging it out, quick glance for the caller. Frustration crossing his features, his gaze locking on Bucky's face.

Skeptical study of Steve, Bucky muttering, "No. Not really. Stark? That's Stark calling you? What the fuck?" Hand raking through his hair, feet moving, quick prowling in front of Steve.

Deep breath pulled in Steve mumbling "He'll never stop, I need to answer this," abrupt swipe to take the call, "Tony, I'm a bit busy here."

Stark's voice loud enough for Bucky to hear making steps stumble, "Ross? Is that you?"

"No. Not Ross. It's me, Steve. You know damn well it's me."

Continuing to be loud, "Not Ross? You know he gets around right? Cagey bastard. Rogers. Well, this is awkward. Must have butt dialed you by mistake."

Steve countering, "You don't carry your phone in your back pocket."

Bucky's pacing stopped short, "How the hell do you know that?"

Tony's voice lowering, verging closer to genuine, "You're with him aren't you? He lied to me. He broke my jet. He's there isn't he?"

Steve watching Bucky watching him, "Yes, I ran into him in a public restroom. What a coincidence. Gotta go."

Tony cut in, "Rogers." The pause long enough telling Steve, the call was more than a mistake or a taunt, Stark's words chosen carefully, "Your boy. His mission. Still has the skills I take it? Tell him something for me. He owes me a jet."

Steve's gaze raking over the crowd, time pressing, "He's aware of that. I've gotta go."

Tony jumping in, "One more thing. Tell him. When he takes the shot. Don't miss."

Steve's answer coming after Stark hung up, "He won't. We won't." No time left to process Stark's cryptic message, Steve moving towards Sokolov, hand on her back, hurried steps heading to their right.

Bucky pulling the hood over his head, three steps following Steve, then veering to his left, irritated mumble, "He's still calling you. I hate him too. You can tell him that when you, you know, next time you two chat." Sudden stop, hand to his ear, "Is Stark on here? I don't want him in my ear. I've got enough going on in my head, I do not need him in there too."

Steve still moving forward, determined stride across the terminal's expanse, "No Stark. Just us. You, me, Nat, and Sam. We're heading for that last ticket booth. Buck, don't get killed." Hand on Sokolov's shoulder, gesture appearing protective, fingers dug tight around bone, driving her forward. Feigned sightseeing glances, ranging over the building and doors and crowd, constant checking on Bucky as he headed far beyond his reach.

Quick pace, eyes averted, Bucky still taking in the bustling crowd, furtive glances up, left then right, over his shoulder, counting internal not an outlet for his anxiety but an accounting of his pursuers. Quiet whisper meant for the team, "I count three, no, not three, plus one, three plus one."

Sam's irritation still evident, "Man, you have got to work past this number thing, Barnes."

"Not now, Sam." Steve defense a whisper as he and Sokolov settled in the ticket line.

Bucky arguing, "No. you don't get it. Three plus one. Three at the entrance to the platform, one in the middle. No hair, short, gun under his coat, see one see them all. Same, always the same."

Voice trailing off, Bucky's bold stride carrying him direct, hard stop behind the bald-headed man, metal arm sudden wrapping his neck, tight enough to jerk a body close, not enough to cut his air completely. Flesh hand quick stripping the gun, safety off, barrel jammed deep painful under the ribs. The man too startled and slow to offer anything more than a huffed grunt; weak flailing of his hands, eyes bulging, breaths gasping desperate.

Metal fingers raking white imprints on fatty flesh, Russian

growled in an ear, Bucky's breath hot against his skin, "Uncle, so good to see you. We're late. Let's get on the train, shall we? Just you and I, sorry none of your friends are invited."

A knee jammed sharp into the man's thigh, forced steps forward, "We'll sing songs of the Volga, get drunk on the best Vodka, stuff ourselves with fish pie and puke our guts out in the morning. Or I can relieve you of your guts right here. I prefer not killing you, but you should know, you will not be my first. Your choice."

Bucky and the balding man awkward shuffling, ragged gait heading for the platform doorway. Stopping short, facing three men, features darkened by serious focus, task at hand, bringing down the Soldier.

Stalemate holding for seconds. One brandishing a confident smirk uncovering his weapon, direct threat aimed at Bucky's hostage. Numbers running quick in this thoughts, counting rhythmic internal, finger's caress of the trigger, picturing slow motion, bald man's body meant as cover, step around his falling corpse, metal arm blocking, time enough to take at least one, maybe two. Aggressive steps forward, risking the third one's accurate aim. Three steps closer, bullet to the brain. Less than thirty seconds. Done and done.

Deep breath pulled in, Bucky making his decision, gun slipping from it's nestled fleshy spot, commitment made. Stopped short when bodies jerked erratic. Blue haze electric spark chasing across the falling men, twitching where they fell, sprawled disparate along the wooden platform.

Bucky staring uncertain at first, understanding coming clear; Romanova, eyebrow raised, visible once the wall of his opponents hit the ground. Her wide-stance pose three feet from the end of the train starting its slow staggering departure.

Crooked smile not held back, "Barnes. Nice to see you. Shall we head for Moscow?"

Bucky mumbling defensive as he shoved the bald man to the ground, "I had this, you know, I had this." 


	19. Chapter 19 Remember

Bucky remembered their hands. Brutal taught deference, to keep his gaze averted, a demand expected as Hydra's possession. Their hands taking his focus each encounter over the years; soldier, handler, keeper, Architect.

Calloused, dirt-encrusted rough dragging him forward, reminders of his bloodied pain. Slender-fingered delicate; a craved tender touch morphed to aching shame. Thin-boned hand's stroke of hair or cheek, rare kindness welcomed. Inevitable betrayal, sharp slap, pulled hair, angered grip of flesh; his flinch from her touch rewarded with an even harsher punishment. Memory wiped, hope stolen cyclic. Learning it was easier to give in.

White shirt, crisp ironed lines, dark strips of suspenders flanking a swatch of a dull-colored tie; tucked efficient to rest between the buttons. The man smelling faint of wool and smoke and a delicate perfumed scent. Fingers too short for the size of his hands, pasty white, shining clean, half-moon line, the nails clipped precise matching fingertip to fingertip.

The woman standing equal at the man's side; wide stance, square shoulders, clothing a tailored mimic of the man. Arms folded holding a stun prod, loving caress of the Widow's weapon of control.

Bucky kneeling fevered before Mother and the man, first mission report taking priority over wounds left unattended. Eyes darting wary from brown shined shoes to the man's reach for his face. Dark ink of a crown-shaped tattoo precisely marked on his index finger; made more distinct by the bright white of the skin. A detail etched forever in his memory.

The man's fleshy softness stealing affection from his cheek, slipping insidious to tight cradle his throat. A deep-hissed demand for an accounting; why the children were dead, why their Soldier was defeated by an old man and his wife.

Bucky's drawn in breath to speak cut short; accosting wide-palmed full taking of his mouth, covering his nostrils, head tugged back, pressed choking against the man's groin. Air slow-strangled from his lungs, panic demanding his reach to fight the hold, warned off by the fired start of the Widow's prod.

Eyes watered with the fading of his vision to hazy darkness sounds falling dull, body tension giving way to weakness as his lungs began to fail. Metal hand daring their punishment, last effort vice-grip of the man's wrist, twisting wrench to tear the smothering hand from his face. Air deep gulped in, feeding the burning ache in his chest, body choking scrambling forward and free of his grip.

Head bowed, ragged gasps for air, Bucky's staggered fight to rise knocked down repeated by the searing electric chase of the Widow's stun. Dark eyes sparkling brighter watching him writhe at her feet, her pleasure caught in the corner of his eye.

Gritted teeth, tongue bit bloody, Bucky failing to keep his scream from her ears. Throat rasping raw with the sound of his own voice mingled indeterminate with the man's aching wail.

Mother's terse smile etched into his vision as the shock raced unrelenting; her final thrust deep plunged into his chest, driving him into the seizure that wracked his body tense. Thoughts scrambled flailing as she stole away his consciousness; a shadowed figure lingered, a blond boy silent standing near as he drifted off into the darkness. 

Skin sticky wet, blood congealed mixed with sweat, the aftermath leaving Bucky curled fetal on the floor. Pain pulled tears drying tight to cheeks, bodily functions lost in the wake of the seizures. Soldier's boots scuffled heavy-footed around his body, rough lift to pull him from the room, trailing blood and sweat and piss in his wake.

Light and footing changing as they dragged his weakened limbs, harsh-electric glow to blinding sun, ending in damp heated darkness. Rough tossed to a splintered wooden floor, metal bars surrounding, door clanged shut. Graveled laughter fading as the soldiers walked away from his claustrophobic cell. Head pressed to find comfort against the cold steel bars, dirt choking cough shaking his body. Time passing uncertain, lulled by the rhythmic vibration of the train's rumbled passing.

Awareness flirting elusive interrupted by a gentle press against his cheek. Eyes trying to focus, scanning darkened walls, thick bars holding him in. Gaze catching shadowed movement in yellowed light filtered by a single hazy pane of glass. Features faded by his vision and the dim-lit space, coming more apparent with the slow blink of waking; ragged dressed children kneeling lined outside his cell.

One girl braver than the rest, lanky bare legs, cascading dark curls near to hiding the green of her eyes; tenuous reach to brush bloodied hair from his face. No words spoken, knowing glances only passed among his audience. A rag dipped in scant water, pressed against his lips, dragged cautious to his forehead, eyes falling shut at the mercy of her kindness.

Time passing again, serum doing it's work healing the wounds; steadying hand on the bar, slow struggle to his knees, forehead to hard metal waiting out the spinning in his head. Eyes startled open with a touch to his hair, small hand fleeting shake, extended with an offer of a morsel of bread. A dark-haired boy, thin-arms, sunken chest, firm grasping of his metal wrist sending a shudder hard to control. The bread pushed furtive and quick into his palm before the child silent fell back into the sea of still-sitting bodies filling the train's freight car.

Comforting rhythmic motion slow rolling to a jerking halt; the scuffle of doors opening, sunlight streaming in, casting harsh shadows as the children scattered before the slow-paced entrance of brown shined shoes. Bucky sitting braced in the corner of his cage, white pasty hand passing eye level, the man's cane cracked across the back of a child too slow to move, his foot kicking another.

Slow climb to his feet, palms wrapping the bars, Bucky studying the eyes of his companions. Fear scurried deeper for most, some with tears quick wiped away, some defiant paying the price.

The man grabbed a tall, thin girl pulling her unwilling from the crowd to stop before his cell. Arm cast held heavy in a sling, the crown-tattooed finger rough slipping unwanted through dark curled hair. Cyrillic words taunting "Wouldn't you like a piece of this Soldat? Soft and young." Intruding caress of her body, cruel curled mouth pressed to her skin. Bucky silent calculated his reach, too far for even his strength, hands tightening down, faint creak of the iron's beginning to give, stopped by the stun prod's rattle of the bars inches from his face.

The Widow stepped forward, her mouth a thin-lined smirk, "He prefers boys. Only boys for him," before striding away.

Metal hand darting forward, fingertips graze of a dark tweed coat, the man not acknowledging Bucky's straining reach. Quick paced exit; thin girl with curled brown hair stumbling along beside him. Pleading look over her shoulder, Bucky's gaze connecting with deep green eyes; veil lifted for a second, her fears shared fleeting before she disappeared wrapped unwilling in the man's possessive hold.

First memory of the Architect burned permanent in his brain. 

_"You can't stand here stuck in the doorway, fear-grip_ _p_ _ing the handle for six days as we speed onward to your certain submission, abuse, torture culminating in death."_

Bucky soft groaned, slow rocking his forehead pressed to the door's window. Staring down, metal palm tight locked on the steel handle, seconds forming minutes, panic holding feet still, thoughts fast drowning in the past.

 _"The provodnitsa, those hard-working women of the train will get suspicious."_

Focus scattering wide, rush of the now dragging history forward; lurched movement beneath his feet, train's wheels rolling, speed building incessant. Rhythmic clicks and groans of an aging carriage, rail seams passed repetitive, measured reminder of moving towards his inevitable fate. Rumbling vibrations chasing up tense muscles; soles to hips to chest settling as a throbbing at the back of his head.

 _"The train was your brilliant plan. What were you expecting?"_

Pulled in ragged breath, full-body sweat breaking; mind's eye caught inescapable, dark haunting gap wide-torn open in a train car's wall, white mountains racing past. Frigid air swirling ghosted push, body still living in the pain, deflected blast lifting his weight, rag-doll powerless, tossed into the abyss. Steve's reaching fingertips not connecting with his desperate outstretched hand.

Squeezing eyes shut, fight to shove the vision aside, cheek pressed to pane's coldness, vain attempt to quell anxiety's heated flush of his skin.

 _"Get your shit together,_ _Soldat._ _You've been on plenty of trains since that time the good Captain dropped you into Hydra's hands."_

Bucky's voice rasping dry, "Nope. He didn't do that," same answer internal every time. Holding close the doubt sitting in the shadows, given a hint of life with his fatigue.

 _"Mother didn't shove you off the train. She tried her best to show you, she wouldn't let you fall. You do remember her lessons?"_

"Fuck you. Fuck her," Bucky's words mumbled dry thickness. Slow push to take a cautious glance up, inviting a heated nauseated spin spreading head to gut. Eyes slammed shut, forehead to cold metal, Cyrillic words groaned for himself, "Get your shit together, Soldat."

Minutes passing stuck, thoughts slow grasp of the real, memory's reminder of what he'd find behind his back. Not yet willing to turn to face six days on the third class coach. Packed bodies hanging wetness in the air, sweat, and breath clinging tenacious, jolting change from arctic winds left behind. Mingling odors dragging memories forward in his brain, spiced and sweet and sour; thickened weighted diesel, body odors putrid.

Carriers overfilled, humanity pressed in close, cramped berths one on top of the other, four on one side, two across the tiny aisle. The car's heat fighting the cold air edging the glass of doors and windows.

Head throbbing, rhythmic rattling wheels the train building speed out across the still frozen landscape of Far East Russia. Cacophony of voices, deep rumbled laughs, lilting chatter, hunger sending a baby's wail to pierce sharp pain into his hearing.

 _"Babies crying in their mother's arms. You remember this. Mercy begged, tears flowing, you not giving a shit."_

"I gave a shit. I give a... What the fuck is happening?" Full body flush of sweat, Bucky forcing eyes open, staring at his boots, breath catching shallow and ragged.

 _"These people know what you did. They see your guilt. Hydra's hand out in the open. Like you belong in their midst."_

"Nope. Not true. Knock it off," Metal hand quick hidden in his pocket, taking the Voice's mocking, literal reminder.

 _"Listen to them. Your language skills are damn near perfect, no matter what lies you fed Mother. Can you hear them? Talking about you. They feared you once; haunted their children's nightmares. Now listen to them, laughing at you."_

"They can laugh. I don't care. Better that, than be afraid of me." Bucky's forced roll of his head, body following reluctant; letting his back lean heavy against the door, facing the long, crowded aisle, far end not visible from where he stood.

 _"You traded a jet for - this? A platzkartnyy? Let me list the ways that this is wrong: Close quarter bodily functions. Six days with close quarter bodily functions. Six days with close quarter bodily functions while being pursued by that ragtag bunch of losers calling themselves the last of Hydra. Nothing but a gaggle of Vory wannabe's."_

"Yeah, well, losers that have guns. And knives. Wannabe's or not." Sharp tremor chasing across his body, deep, steadying breath, clear vision tunneling down, bright closing in to dark.

Shadowed figure hovering, Romanova's voice close, "Barnes, you're looking a bit green, or blue, I'm not sure in this light."

Red hair wrapped in black, memories darting forward, sharp ghosted sting where her fingers brushed his cheek. Shuddering jerk to pull away.

 _"Widow's bite Soldat. Doesn't even need her venom, just fingers to your flesh."_

Wilson's words cracked and distant, "What the hell do the numbers mean. I do not want to be wandering all over Moscow with my ratty scrap of paper doing my lost tourist impression."

Bucky's absent muttered answer, "No. Forget about the numbers."

Empty gut rolling, bile teasing the back of his throat, eyes closed fight to steady the spin of head and belly.

 _"What next? Puking? You're pathetic, Soldat. A few sweaty bodies, staring at you. Talking about you and you're going to toss your stomach bile. You've caused it all; blood and guts, gunpowder and gasoline, piss and..."_

"Enough. I get it. Not gonna puke." Bucky letting his head drop chin close to chest, eyes tight shut, knees weak, slow slipping down the door; fighting his fall.

Flesh hand blind reach trying to steady himself, catching something soft, fingers ratcheting down, tighter grip on Romanova's arm.

Her words near his ear, "Come on Barnes. You need to sit down."

Bucky's answer rapid and irritated, "Nope. It's just the heat, the people. Everyone just needs to stop talking. Everyone, real and imagined, needs to shut the fuck up."

"Buck, I need you to focus." Steve's voice interceding, steady and firm in his ear.

"Except you - Steve. You - keep talking." Quick release of Romanova, hands braced on his knees, deep held breath, letting the sound of Steve's voice wash over him.

"I'm listening, remember, we can hear one another. I'm on the train. I know you don't want us to be seen together. We don't need to be close, but, I need to be able to see you."

Voice a cracked whisper, "Steve? You're here?" A push to raise his head, eyes opened slow, focused close study of his thumb's golden grooves trying to quiet the nausea, "Right, supposed to be here. Not really but here we are. Russia."

Steve adding, "Yup. Here we are. On a train to Moscow. Stay put, I'm coming to you."

"No. I'll find you." Deep breaths pulled in, long and slow, pounding in his head, dulled down allowing the sounds of passengers to grate familiar in his hearing. Garbled and loud, lilting and soft, languages heard and spoken over his years as the Soldier, voices from his past turning real.

Bucky pulling his sleeve across his face, wiping aside the sweat, head raised, "Where are you? Is she with you? Did she hurt you?" Blinking eyes to clear his focus, searching the passenger car, narrow aisle crowding in, far end disappearing into a tangle of swaying bodies. 

Steve's answer, "Car three. Berths four and five. How you doing?"

Bucky's sarcasm a mumbled trailing off, "Yup. Peachy. Just sweat, and noise and stench, and rocking. Maybe a, you know, a flash of, whatever you call it, the past. Right and panic. I'm good. All good."

"Remember, I'm not far away. Tasha, don't leave him." Steve's deep breath in slow exhaled, head laid back to the seat settling the rush of boarding the train wrangling Sokolov. Listening to the sound of Bucky's voice.

Reluctant tugging the old passport from his jacket, cautious fingered opening to stare at the man that looked like himself. Memory storing away the conductor's long look at the picture. Her thumb pulled firm across the menacing red symbol in the corner, wary exam of the photo held close to his face, scrutinizing gaze slow crossing one to the other and back; studied comparison, the First Handler to Steve.

Eyes closed, stealing seconds to quiet the ache gripping his chest; replaying minutes earlier. The passport handed back, no further questions, approval given with a terse smile and a nod. The man in the faded image believed to be him. Thoughts falling back to Bucky's remorseful confession. Hydra's First Handler, broad-shouldered, blond hair, blue-eyed replacement for himself, fooling Bucky's tortured mind, thinking Steve had survived the plane's icy crash, falling for their ploy. The ache of Bucky's regret playing out every day in a look or a word. Never far from his mind.

"Uncanny isn't it?" Sokolov's comment pulling his gaze towards her, "It took months for us to find him, your doppelganger. Not long to fool Soldat though. He was distraught, pathetic, starving himself over your death. Foolish waste. We'd invested time, research, our future; too much to let him kill himself over - love."

Steve's cold stare locked on the Widow sitting direct across, his knees too close to touching hers in the confined berth space. Body cramped claustrophobic, air choked with her presence; red flush of anger taking his skin, finger's twitch to reach for her throat to quiet her mocking. Hand held back by one thought, Bucky's need for his staying in control.

Forced steadiness in his tone, "Ancient history, remember? You entertained me with the video of your Handler not that long ago. You're repeating yourself, not a good sign." Abrupt move to tuck the passport away, not breaking from their stare.

Thin smile, hands folding in her lap, feet not touching the floor, dark eyes a window on deeper malice brimming, "I didn't forget our time together at the silo. You're a hard man to make scream. Not like him. He finds his soul in the pain."

Shadowed memories of his tortured encounter with the Widow, her careful laid taunts lurching forward in Steve's consciousness. Video evidence of Bucky's life in the hands of Hydra. Images flashing uncontrolled in his mind; Bucky's naked skin caressed by a stranger's hand, the voice he'd know in the darkest of dreams, turned raw and ragged by the screams she dragged from his body.

One memory outstripping all others; grip of shame claiming Bucky's features as he stood next to Steve in the torture chamber, watching his Hydra story playing out around the room. Bucky's sidelong regretful glance, humiliation burrowing deep before Steve's eyes, wrapping insidious roots around their lives.

Rage of words clamoring to his throat, muscled twitch of his jaw hidden by the beard, fingers gripping seat's edge, pink skin fading pale to white. Thoughts clinging determined to his comfort, memory's feel of Bucky's skin, body held close. Hard swallow, lashing response dragged back from the brink, hands near to tearing through the cushioned seat, low voiced declaration, "You're only alive because I deferred to what he wanted. Once. Your day will come, and I will be there, waiting."

Sokolov laughed sharp and humorless, "Is Captain America threatening me?"

"Not Captain anymore. Not a threat - more of a guarantee."

Icy stares holding, Steve's attention pulled by Bucky's hesitant voice in his ear, "Ah, Rogers, I hear you. What you said to her. Listen, I explicitly instructed you not to talk to her, and I can hear you talking to her. I'm asking nicely. Stop it."

"We're all good here, no worries. Are you with Tasha?" Body tension slipping a hair, tone betraying his worry.

Bucky's answer drowned out by a noisy interruption. Tall, lanky man, backpack slung over one arm, duffle bag resembling a four-foot sausage, heavy dropped on the bench next to Steve. Short blonde-haired woman, chubby child on her hip following with at least three bags adorning her body, a dramatic flourished flop on the seat next to the Widow.

Greetings offered all the way around, handshakes exchanged, nods and stumbled words of limited English. Quick Cyrillic conversation springing up, the man gesturing enthusiastic, the woman's laugh grating loud. Sokolov launching into their banter fingered toying with the child, cooed soft noises, demeanor projecting grandmotherly benign. Steve sitting back, taking in the scene, deceptively festive and kind, broken by

her turn towards him. The curve of her smile shifting a trace harder, glimpse of cold in her eyes, as she murmured, "Children are a precious commodity, Captain."

Angling towards the window, no notice of the quick passing landscape, bright colored houses, distant trees, open expanse dark earth spotted white. Steve's voice low, words meant for Bucky, not wanting the others to hear, "Buck, listen to me. We have company. Not bad, just berth-mates." Deep breath pulled in, slow released, forehead laid to cold glass, "I know, I can tell that Voice just kicked in. I can hear it, not it, I mean." Slow blink of frustration, "So listen to me. I know you haven't slept in days. You're tired, hungry."

Bucky interrupting, "Nothing new."

Steve pushing on, "I get it," wanting to say more, fighting the urge to leave the Widow behind, search every car, finding Bucky, "Okay, the only voice you listen to now is mine. Got it?"

Rasped whisper, Bucky's answer nearly drowned out by the noise of the train, "Your voice. Only your voice. I promise."

A not hidden worry in Steve's tone, "Tasha, stick to him."

Natasha reassuring, "Like cat hair."

Berth-mates passing a bottle, food pulled out, universal gestures of sharing, Steve's words faked happy, directed towards Sokolov, meant for Bucky as a message, "Here we are, Auntie Gieta, our dream vacation. Trans-Siberian Railway! Just what we needed, you, me and a family of three."

Bucky's grousing, "Auntie Gieta? Great, now she's our aunt. Not exactly my dream vacation maybe it's yours," bringing a smile to Steve's face. Rustle of him moving, long staggered sigh, "I need to take my meds. That's what I need. And you. I need you. What I have is Romanova, a handful of pills and a couple of dried raisins stuck to the bottom of my backpack. Not the same as you..."

Steve's whispered answer, "Soon, pal, soon." 

"What the hell. Get out of here," Bucky fighting to shove the bathroom door shut, keeping Romanova out, her body straddling the threshold, "Barging into the bathroom with me?" His pushing her shoulder, her ducking from his hand, his knee to the door, "Like I'm some three-year-old needing supervision. I have to piss. Get out."

Natasha grabbing the sink's edge, fighting his push, "No you don't. You haven't had any water in a week, you don't have any piss in you."

Bucky prying fingers loose, "You have no idea about my water intake or my ability to urinate. Get the fuck out."

Her arm sliding under his backpack's strap, quick wrap to hold on, "Nope, I am doing exactly what Steve wanted. Sticking with you."

"I'm not going to sneak out the toilet hole," Bucky grabbed her wrist, unwrapping her arm, "This is too strange, even for me, or you."

Her scrambling grab of Steve's borrowed sweater, pulling on the knit, "No. I'm in. We need to talk."

Bucky working to untangle her hold, voice a rising squeak at the end, "This is Steve's, you're ruining it." A full shouldered lean into the door as their fingers wrestled, slapping and twisting in the weave.

Romanova abandoning their finger fight, grabbing the sink again, pinned between the door's edge and its frame, hissing, "Let me in, people are watching us."

Not missing a beat, Bucky's temple pressed to the door, an inch from her face, "Yup because the bathroom is for one person. One. Not two. One."

"Barnes, damn it," Romanova's grunted air huffed short when his knee jammed against the door, "You're crushing me."

Bucky stopping abrupt, watching her breath panting the pain. Irritation giving way to concern features wearing his regret. Sudden step back, releasing the door, a hand catching her arm as she stumbled inside. Quick release when she righted herself.

Heel shooting back to slam the door shut, Natasha leaned knees bent, back pressed to the wall, tossing her head to clear hair from her eyes.

Bucky's step forward, claiming the space, a glared staring challenge, "What are you gonna do? Pull my pants down for me?"

"I can if you need that kind of help," Natasha pushing up, standing toe-to-toe, a look meeting his glare.

Bucky's thoughts playing out across his face determined morphing to worried ending with confused. Steps falling away, back pressed to the wall, eyeing her suspicious, "Are you coming on to me? No. You can't be?" Feet needing to move, anxious pace, not enough room in the tiny space. Fidgeting steps, hands raking his hair; settled retreat to the far corner from the door, a finger deliberate pointed, "You know he's listening. He knows. Steve? Are you listening to this?" Ragged breath, whispered, "Romanova's in here - with me - tiny space. Damn."

Natasha stepped to the sink, water soaking a paper towel, "Barnes, stop babbling and sit down. You've got blood on your head, your hair's got knots in it. You look like something Baba Yaga dragged in. Let's get you cleaned up before we march through sixteen cars packed with people."

Slight wag of his head, mocking tone, "Funny. Russian jokes, nice. Like I want to make jokes about Russia."

Natasha's sharp point at the toilet a command, "Sit down. Don't you have medications to take?"

Bucky's eyes narrowing, "Right. Now you're saying I'm crazy aren't you?"

Arms crossed, Natasha leaned against the sink, "No. That's pejorative. I'm saying you're a mess. That's different."

Bucky staring long and hard before his boot toe dropped the toilet seat, a wary step to settle; backpack tugged from his back to his lap, digging out the bottles.

Romanova's first attempt to pull the snarls from his hair aborted when he ducked his head from her hand, "Stop moving."

Bucky bobbing and weaving from her touch, "Only Steve does that."

Soft crooked smile, "Steve brushes your hair?"

Quick deflection, "No. I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did." Arms crossing again, an eyebrow raised.

"No. No, he doesn't. Never mind what I said."

Acknowledging nod, their argument falling away. Natasha's careful approach, gentle cleaning of the wound, fingers cautious pulling strands of hair, untangling the knots.

Bucky distracted, reading each pill bottle label; not ducking from her touch.

Romanova's Cyrillic words breaking their silence, "When are you going to tell him the truth?"

Bucky's absent response, focus on the pills, matching her Russian, "What truth?"

"Where you're going," Cautious tugging loose the snarled hair.

"Sure. Moscow. Happy?" Scooping water from the faucet.

Natasha pressing, "Who's your target?"

Second pill tossed in his mouth, "Is this the question of the day game?" Water pulled from his hand, "Cuz you don't get to be in that game."

"I have no idea what that is, but Steve needs to know who you're going after."

"Who I'm after?" The pause seeming stubborn, Bucky letting history revisit, the shudder chasing across his skin hidden with a roll of his shoulder and a deep breath pulled in, ragged sighed release, "Doesn't matter. He won't be anywhere near him. I'll know the target, I'll know him. Time, time doesn't erase that."

Natasha studying the lines of his face gaze distant staring lost in the past. Opting not to push, switching to ask, "And what you said back at the barn?"

Last pill popped in his mouth, chased down with a handful of water, "You were there for all of six seconds. What did I say?"

"Lubov moya."

Bucky ducking his head, hair pulled from her touch, "You're crazy. I never said that."

"I heard it. Steve deserves to know how you feel."

"He knows how I feel." Bucky's sudden rise, agitated need to move, backpack landing on the floor. Both bending to retrieve it heads near bumping, awkward reaching one then the other.

Natasha stepping back, hands in the air, "Barnes you're going after the head of the snake. You should consider telling him the truth."

Backpack pulled up, tossed onto his back, anger building, "Snake? Not a snake. Hydra. Many heads. Many many heads. Many."

"Tell him how you feel."

Bucky lunging taking her space, chest pressed to chest; forcing her back. Metal hand shooting forward close passing her cheek, near to shattering the mirror, words growled next to her ear, "He fucks me, he knows how I feel."

Natasha's voice remaining steady, "Are you trying to shock me? Not gonna happen."

Gaze dropping to her fist buried in his belly, stun dart glowing electric blue, "You're the one trying to shock people. Don't tell me how to be with him. It's not your business."

Tilt of her head, eyebrow raised, "I care about him and you."

Bucky not able to hide the tremor, his words rasping raw, "Don't. Don't fucking care about me. You can care about him. Not me."

"Fine. I'll care about him," hand falling away.

Steps taken, distracted pace, a turn to press tight into the corner, "Not too much though. He's still mine." Metal finger accusing point, "So stay away," hand pulled back, fingers catching his hair, "No, wait. What are we talking about? Yes. Mine, he's mine. You stay away." Disorganized wave of his hand, "You know, like that."

Natasha pushing off the sink, "Barnes, You need to eat something. And sleep, definitely sleep."

Bucky's voice rising, "You are not my mother."

Steve's voice cutting in, firm worry coming clear, "Should I be concerned that the two of you are arguing loudly and with great enthusiasm in Russian? Is it a good thing, a bad thing, getting in character? Are you in trouble? Do I need to come find you?"

Not missing a beat, Cyrillic words abandoned, Bucky ranting on, "You are not my mother. I have what, three, four? I've lost count. I have no idea, anymore." Pulling straps tight, awkward tug on the door, stubbing his toe; three tries to yank it open; a march out into the aisle, Romanova close following.

Steve adding, "Buck enough. Stop calling her that, stop calling everyone that."

Natasha close behind, "Steve, Maybe you two should meet up. The dining car. We'll head your way. I'll take over with Sokolov. You meet Barnes, make him eat something. He's cranky." 

"That's his baseline." Sam's weighing in a crackled voice lost across the comms drowned out by aberrant noise and Bucky's running commentary. Ending with "Fuck you."

"I rest my case." Sam muttering with self-righteous confidence as he maneuvered the Quinjet, cloaking in full force, riding inches close to the varied Russian landscape.

Quick call to Steve, avoiding the comms, an agreed-upon approach, "Cap, on my way. ETA Moscow, seventeen hours and fifty-two minutes. I'll keep you posted. So, what's the Russian equivalent of a Snickers Bar? Buy one for him. On my tab. Not that it'll make a difference. Just don't tell him I bought it. No sense ruining a perfect relationship."


	20. Chapter 20 Drowning

Steve buoyant-floating, salted water lapping chin to belly to toes. Head tilt subtle, hearing submerged, taunted words echoed from childhood days muddied gray in the Atlantic's cold embrace. Frail body set free, weight carried at the mercy of undercurrent's tow. Sun-burned red tinged vision behind eyelids scrunched shut, scattered thoughts turning inward, pain deep-buried released upon the waves.

The ocean cradling his body, lulled sense of peace, stealing his awareness, gentle carried farther from the shore. Thoughts wandering placid, mind's eye seeing Bucky, snarked words wrapped in affection, mouth curved in a smirk not ever forgotten.

Gut twinge a reminder, chest fleeting tight with hidden want, Steve keeping close his unspoken secret; time and society not accepting. Bucky's warning spoken heated in shared nights close to spilling his truth, dared intimacy redirected, "Nope, Stevie, we can't do this." Consoled by Bucky's eyes, telling a different story than the words shutting him down.

Steve drifting lost surrounded by his dreams, oblivious to the tide pulling him under, wrapped silent in the water muting Bucky's panicked screams.

Head slipping beneath rolling waves, arms reflexive flail, desperate reaching for the brightest light shimmering above his head. Breath tightening his chest, gasped air replaced by ocean, even frail weight dragging him down. Vision fading darker with dying effort to reach the surface. Mind's scrambled comfort finding Bucky, regret's ache embraced for not taking what he desired, time running out.

Steve's fight slipping away, overcome by salted water's strength; last thought, last image grasped, gray eyes sorrowed watching him drown.

Dark silence jolted sudden. Two flesh hands grabbing his waist, hauling bodies close, lifting weight heavy with the water's owning. Hard thrust against his stomach, forcing air and ocean out. Anxious voice buried in the murk of his senses, "Damn Rogers, I nearly lost you." Bucky's arm wrapping possessive around his chest. Steve taking his embrace, together tossed like weightless flotsam. Bucky's legs kicking defiant, angered determined against the tow, brawling the ocean's power to save Steve's life.

Two boys carried on, the event falling to old stories of adventure; Bucky smirking, bicep flexed in sleeveless T-shirt, "Who's your hero? I saved your scrawny ass." Words sounding harsh, teased in the night; countered by his hunger, broad shoulders nestled to thin chest, feet tugging legs entangled. Insistent pull on Steve to wrap him tight bound from behind, both falling asleep safe in their embrace.

Brush with drowning a faded memory until after Bucky's fall. Steve haunted by that day, dragged from the ocean's rightful hold by Bucky's saving fight. Steve reliving outstretched hands, desperate finger's reach, inches apart. Replaying body's memory, time standing still, same voice repeating, waking and in dreams "Could have reached him, let him fall, you could've tried harder." Image clear across the years, taking sleep and dreams, regardless of the ice; Bucky slipping from his fingers. Guilt creeping relentless filling in the void. 

Steve watching Bucky's jaw set, eyes wide, near to innocent conviction. Short distance holding them apart, the empty space an abyss owning the deep ache in his chest. Dutifully obeying heart-wrenching demands, reluctant keeping his distance.

"I gave my word." Bucky's slow shake of his head, "Well, a promise," undermining his insistence, "No, wait. I made a deal, sort of?" Apologetic shrug visible despite the two glass-windowed doors and six wide feet of separation. Staring at Steve across the connector compartment between train cars. The rattle nearly drowning words muttered distant through the comms, "I need to make good on it, whatever it is."

Attempt at steady, Steve challenging, "A promise, not your word. A deal, maybe? With your tormentor? You feel some kind of obligation?" Exasperation barely hidden, "You made a deal with the woman who tortured you." Face and tone struggling neutral, his hand out of sight, mangling the door handle. Voice deep cracking, "That does not count."

"That doesn't make it any less my word, promise, you know, obligation." Bucky's finality contradicting his reach. Flesh hand pressing the glass, gestured caress of Steve's cheek; eyes telling what he'd take if he were closer.

Leaning to accept the ghosted touch, Steve not finding comfort in the cold of the window, firm reminder, "She's using you."

Bucky's answer taking too long, sounding uncertain, "I'm using her right back."

Steve matching Bucky's hand on the glass despite the wide divide, "Buck come on. You haven't eaten in days, meet me in the dining car. Just the two of us."

Faint nod of agreement, "Sure, okay," seconds later reneging, "After I do this. I promise."

Steve's voice edging hard, "You don't owe her anything."

Gaze wandering, history stealing Bucky's focus, "I've gone hungry before, days, weeks, longer, I'm not even sure. Not like they dragged me to the shrimp bar or we ate burgers and fries every night." Bucky's eyes becoming brighter, connected with Steve, hint of a smile, "Not like us, like that place back home. You remember that? I made you lick my fingers." Forehead pressing the glass, a laugh flirting nervous, whispering," I kissed you. Remember?" Teeth pulling his lip, single finger tracing the glass, "I kissed you first that time on the roof, in the middle of a firefight."

Steve's breath caught abrupt at Bucky's soft laugh, murmur shifting soft to hard, "How could I forget that? When we rescued you, from Sokolov, your torturer."

Bucky shook his head, "Not a rescue, I escaped. You just showed up to give me a ride."

"I stand corrected," A laugh's release held back, Bucky's return to the Widow burning a hole in Steve's gut.

Shadows stealing Bucky's lightness, "I don't owe her, but I said I would do this."

Warmth of first kiss memories dissipating, Steve watched Bucky slip distracted, gaze falling on the distance. Rise of anger sending heat across skin, hard fought to keep it hidden. Flat-palm becoming a fist, pulled punch grazing the glass, jarring Bucky's attention, "You can't trust her." Muscled tightness spreading, what he didn't want to say gritted anyway, "You gave me your word."

Bucky muttering, "About eating? I don't remember that."

"Not about eating," Steve's eyes closing for a second's pause stolen, thoughts held back spilling out against his will, "About her. Not going back to her. You gave me your word, but here we are."

Bucky's agreement nearly timid, "My word. No bullshit. Stronger than a promise, nowhere near a guideline." Letting seconds pass, teeth catching his lip anxious; gaze sincere connected with Steve, "I meant it, I'm not back, just borrowing her."

Steve jerked the door open, striding direct, taking the space between the cars; palm's hard slap of the door, inches apart sending a tremored startle down Bucky's body, quick steps jerked back.

"Don't, I'm sorry. Don't leave." Gaze begging for Bucky's trust; forehead pressed to the glass, Steve's words a wrenching whisper, "I know what she did to you. I saw it. I know all of it, every last shit thing she did."

Confusion moving to uncertain, near to panic, Bucky's head dropping to stare at his feet, "No you don't." Realization playing out shuffled movement, arms folded defensive, "I didn't tell you anything on purpose." Steps falling to retreat, gaze wandering distant beyond Steve's shoulder. Murmured question almost not heard, "Everything?"

Regret gripping Steve, temple's pulse throbbed a twitch to his eye. Yanking the door open, steps rushed forward, an inch from where Bucky stood, "Look at me." Fighting the urge to grab an arm, drag him in, finger's twitch to take his skin; closing the gap to within a breath, quiet ask, "Look at me."

Bucky's gaze trying to escape Steve's insistence, wandering up, away, down until settling on his chest. Shamed rise to connect.

Steve watched fear morphing to hurt play out in Bucky's eyes. Cautious hand's reach to caress a cheek stopped short by his flinch, hair shaken imperceptible, eyes darting his warning to stay away. Steve trying to take back what he'd started, "I'm not, I'm not trying to hurt you. You remember the silo. The pictures she played, taunting me, trying to hurt us. Showing me what they did to you, the things they made you do."

Anxiety moving his feet, Bucky avoiding his reach, a stumble into Romanova, jerking away from her outstretched hands. Uncertainty claiming every muscle and thought; hands shoved deep under his jacket, gathering the sweater, balled up hold in his armpits. Eyes quick searching desperate, final settle on a shadow, just over Steve's shoulder.

"I don't care about any of it." Steve regretting his blurted confession, "I care about you. Only you. Trust me, please."

Bucky's tenuous glance towards Steve, wandering away; quick finding him again. A nod shaking his hair, a muttered, "Yes. Always yes."

Steve's request quiet, "I need you to stop acting like she matters." Hand extended, a grip of Bucky's arm aborted to point towards Romanova, words spoken cautious, "Leave Sokolov with Tasha. You and I together, we stick together. We have a meal, we sit so I can see you. You can see me. Food, sleep, we talk. Not with her."

Natasha offering, "I know who she is. I won't let her out of my sight, Barnes."

Bucky's narrowed critical study of Romanova, a muttered, "Takes a Widow to contain a Widow." Deep breath buying him time, a final agreeing nod, gaze dropping to his feet, "Okay, dinner car, together. Yeah, I can do that, I can eat."

Steve's sighed relief, "Alright. Let's go," unconscious reach to catch Bucky's arm, falling short when he pulled away. A turn to follow his anxious gaze.

Sokolov stepping forward, hard look taking Bucky in, quick soften when Natasha and Steve turned towards her. Tone sing-song innocent, "Are you going back on your word, Soldat? You made a promise to an old woman to have a few small reminders of home. Will you deny me this?" Dark eyes straining to seem kind, glimpse of hardness showing through.

Breath pulled in audible, Bucky rolling his shoulder, struggle revealed in the turn of his foot, gaze searching the space, nervous glance at the Widow, ending on Steve. The apology evident in his eyes, not spoken aloud.

"No, Buck. You just told me you'd go with me." Steve taking the space between them, blocking her view.

Body closing inward, Bucky's gaze falling to the floor.

Steve insisting, "You're not safe with her. I have to keep you safe."

Train whistle jarring, speed slowing down to settle into a jolting halt. Doors opening both sides, conductors efficient taking control, people streaming around, pushing through the compartment. Jostling bodies filling the space breaking them apart.

Bucky's stumbled retreat from the crowd, back pressed to the wall, close to losing sight of Steve, hard to keep connected. Breath and words remaining clear in one another's hearing, "She's old. She asked. I said yes. Just this one stop. Then, then I'm all yours," a laugh cut short, head tilting uncertain shy, "If you still want me."

Steve's brow furrowed, ache in his chest taking his breath, "Always, I will always want you. Don't forget that."

Bucky reluctant stepping forward, entering the flow of bodies pressing close. Chest bumping Steve's shoulder, metal fingers slow stroke of his hand, lingered claiming touch. A lean to bring breath near to Steve's neck, long hair's brush of his cheek, scent filling his senses; home and sex and comfort. Their passing in the open, covered by the shuffling crowd, feel of forever, stolen seconds before Bucky disappeared.

Steve standing alone, eyes tight shut, drowning in Bucky's fading scent, head spinning light, balanced sway, caught by Natasha's steadying hand.

Romanova's words quiet if not reassuring, "It's all part of the game, Rogers, we need to trust him."

Familiar voice low whispered in his hearing, "I need the Widow. Not that Widow, this Widow."

Steve opened his eyes, sharp turn to follow Bucky and Sokolov "No you don't. She is not what you need."

A laugh, caught short, Bucky's voice cracking, "I need her for this mission, Rogers. Not like you. The way I need you."

Steve pushing through the crowd, close eye trailing Bucky, "Damn it, Buck, she's using you."

Bucky's answer garbled: passenger's chatter, train's settling groans, wind stealing his voice, Steve still hearing words drowning, "I know her. Better than you give me credit for. I know her." 

Tinged yellow light cast down from poles equidistant apart, pooling bright along the train station's platform, harsh shadows moving sharp in the biting Siberian wind. Softening red lingering along the horizon, night falling as the train waited, engine idling, provodnitsas viewing passports in the dim of small flashlights; passengers exchanged coming and going.

Steve hovering near the engine end of the platform, calculated distance, worried gaze following two figures close to lost in fading daylight; blocked erratic by the milling crowd. One taller than the other, long hair whipping across vision, his seeming not to notice; gloved metal hand balancing a cardboard box tucked under his arm. Bucky dragging his feet, obedient following the Widow, gaze casual deceptive; cautious attention on the crowd, studying faces, near and distant.

Sokolov's focus on the vendor's line nestled in each pool of electric light selling their products to the train's passengers. Examining the food offerings, her voice cooing and tsking distant, picked up on Bucky's comm. Steve's nerves grating at her words, curt and cold. Jaw clench sending an ache to his temple, resentment at her nearness to Bucky, voice bleeding over his mic. Hearing his breath shallow and quick, telling anxious with every cutting remark thrown over her shoulder, commands without a thought; feeding Steve's anger.

Natasha patrolling the far end of the sales stalls; Cyrillic banter with the locals' soft comfort in Steve's hearing. Protective steps bringing Steve within a few feet of where Bucky stood. Cursory look at the items for sale, constant return to stare at Bucky's back, thoughts lost in the movement of his body, weight shifting each step, mind slipping intimate, remembering every muscled twitch brought on by the touch of his hands.

"You going to answer that, Rogers?" Natasha's words cutting across his thoughts.

Steve tugging at the phone, pinging in his jacket, "Tasha keep your eye on him," as he answered the call, "Hey. Problems?"

Sam launching, "Do not tell me that Barnes threw his phone out. Just do not tell me that."

Steve's deadpan answer, "He didn't throw his phone out."

"Good, great. Now, please give him a tutorial on how to answer the phone. I have been calling him for the last fifty-nine minutes. Note I did not say sixty minutes since that is divisible by three and I refuse, categorically to participate in his numbers fetish."

"Sam, It's not a fetish. How can I help you besides the tutorial? He's not going to answer right now." Steve hovering behind passengers browsing the vendor's wares. Pace shadowing Bucky and Sokolov, near enough to reach if needed, still distant enough for a prying gaze.

"I've been staring at that sweat-soaked scrap of paper of his. I hope that's sweat. Or water. Tasha said postal code so I ran those numbers through a search and I might have something here. It would save me a hell of a lot of work if he just gave us a name."

Steve searching the darkened platform beyond the pools of light, "I'm not convinced he knows the name. Those numbers could be addresses, codes. I haven't pressed him on it." Fading words as his attention caught on Sokolov's hand, reaching rap of Bucky's chest, finger pointing towards what she wanted, his jumping to obey. Steve's anger throbbing pain into his jaw.

Sam arguing, "Can't you bribe him? Do that licking thing. Ask that damn Widow, maybe she knows. Cap, if these numbers are a postal code, the neighborhood, he's never getting in there. These are the uber-mega-rich, oligarchs, heavy security. He's gonna need an army to get past these guys."

Steve's answer sending a chill across his skin, "Or he uses some old skills."

Sam asked, "You mean he Winter's up?"

"Maybe."

Sam adding what he knew Steve didn't want to say, "Or that Widow triggers him."

Steve letting seconds pass, implications being weighed, "Got it. I'll take care of him, And her. Call me when you get there. And Sam, watch your six."

"Always." Sam's afterthought, "Hey, um, if he mentions the texts I sent him. I was joking. Mostly. I was pissed. Got it outta my system. All good now."

Steve asking, "Is that an apology?"

A clear and emphatic "Noooo." Sam's answer as the call clicked off.

Tucking the phone into his jacket, Steve turned his shoulder to block a frigid gust, studying light's edges, shadowed figures moving ominous. "Buck, tell her the shopping trip is over," keeping the pair at the corner of his vision.

Sokolov's curt demands, never looking at Bucky's face, egged on by his purposeful slow response. His digging out rubles repeated, shuffled following her steps. Eyes averted from the vendors, ignoring their wares, feigned disinterest hiding the gathering of details by an assassin's trained gaze.

The Widow's thin-fingered point towards a choice, dismissive wave for him to pay, quick moving to the next. Bucky reticent gathering her purchases dumped chaotic in the box. Her taking his slowness to task chiding barked in Russian, sarcasm wrapped in disdain.

Steve not missing the cut of her tone, or the movement beyond the lights, "Okay, We're done with this." Hands shoved deep into jacket pockets, enough force to challenge the seams, pulled out in frustration. Darting steps towards Bucky and the Widow slowed by Natasha's interruption, "Steve, we've got at least four candidates for the bad-guy list. Two just boarded the train, the other two have eyes on Barnes and Sokolov."

"I see them. Buck, are you paying attention here?" Steve holding worried steps on the edge of the crowd, near enough to see Bucky, heartbeat's stutter at cascading brown hair, his sweater's flash of color. Steve saying what he'd kept bottled inside, "She tortured you. She brainwashed you, stuck words in your head, shocked you into submission for years. God knows what else she did to you, and now you're buying her snacks while her cronies show up."

Natasha trying to intercede, "It's not that simple."

Voice rising, Steve pushing past idling shoppers, "Wrong. This is very simple. What she did to him. What she continues to do to him. This game is over."

Bucky interrupting, words low hinting impatient, "Rogers, I know they're here. I see them." Breath drawn long and staggered, "And, I remember what she did." A mutter near apologetic, "I know what she did to me."

Steve cutting in, "Then end it. I'm here. Nat's here. You don't need her."

"I'm doing what I said I'd do." Words detached, Bucky sounding distant, "I'm buying her Pirozhki, pastry things, stuffed with potato and meat, I can't remember what they taste like if I ever even had one. Chocolate, I promised her that. And fish. I'm buying her fish. Smoked salmon. I never liked it. I think. The smell makes my stomach turn. Not food sick like eating brussel sprouts but memory sick."

Steve's voice breaking faint, "Stop this. Leave her."

Pressured speech, tone flat, Bucky muttering, "I remember a cabin in the woods, oil lamps, soldiers standing over me. Blood, a lot of it, then again blood is kind of a given in my dreams so who knows. It was snowing, and pain, well always pain, and vodka. Red snow? Yeah. Red snow and really shitty vodka." Pause hanging before a rush to finish, "And fish. That's what they tried to get me to eat," nervous little laugh, "I puked."

Steve shouldering his way through the crowd, "That's it. Grocery run is done. On the train. Now." Hand reaching for Bucky's shoulder, last-second hesitation, standing chest to back, enough for windblown hair to tease against his cheek. Eyes shut to steal seconds bodies close, a whispered, "No more. Come with me."

Bucky turning around, fatigue showing head-to-toe, made worse by harsh overhead light. Gaze close to lost, refocusing in seconds, connecting with Steve's, hinting a timid smile. "Hi. You're not supposed to be this close. I'm not supposed to talk to you. I want to, I want to talk to you, to be close. I want you to hold me. I do. But I can't."

Steve reaching to take Bucky's cheek, seconds from tearing the box from his hands, dragging him into his embrace.

Sokolov intervening, possessive arm across Bucky's chest, keeping them apart, "We don't talk to strangers, child. Get on the train, I'll be right behind you." Cutting look towards Steve, cold eye of expected obedience directed towards Bucky.

Brow furrowed Bucky's gaze searching their faces, Sokolov to Steve and back again. Hesitant shuffle, a step to leave, stumbled. A longing look towards Steve, whispering "I'm sorry." Awkward push to squeeze between them heading for the train.

Steve's following held by Sokolov's crippled hand, tight grip of his arm. Words loud and lilting, "You're a very kind young man," dropping to a threatening hiss, "You're a fool, Captain. There are Vory everywhere, watching Us. He told you to stay away. He's trying to protect you. So am I."

Arm pulled free, Steve snapping, "Bullshit."

Mother stepping closer, "Stay away from him."

Steve staring down, "Excuse me?"

"You're going to get all of us killed with your pathetic fawning over him." Sokolov's dismissal an abrupt turn to walk away.

Steve grabbed her arm, "Don't." Pulling her near, bodies brushed menacing, "Let's get something straight. Your time is over."

Her eyes a narrowed threat, words loud enough to draw attention, "You're hurting me, young man."

Steve's answer abrupt, "Good."

"We all have darkness inside of us it seems," The Widow's gaze shifting to her arm, finger's deep clutch, encircling a frail limb.

"Who's the Architect?" Steve's lean taking her space, finger's tightened grip.

Sokolov spitting, "Don't be a fool."

Rough shake of her body, Steve rapid demanding, "Tell me the name of the Architect. What exactly is the plan? How are you getting in there? Wherever that is."

Her response a slight smirk, "You should ask your precious, Soldat."

Steve's anger rising, body pushing, rocking her balance, "Stop calling him that."

Thin fingers clawing at his hand, Sokolov defending, "It's what he wants. I am calling him the name he asked for."

Jaw muscle twitch, shaking her again, Steve repeating, "Who's the Architect? Give me the god-damned name." Hand wrapping her collar, weight lifted from the ground, dangling in the air, toes barely brushing concrete.

Sokolov's breathing choked, crippled hand waving dismissive, "An ancient crust of humanity barely worth this nonsense. A figurehead. Nothing more."

Immovable facing stubborn, Steve confronting Sokolov, the world around them bowing to their struggle over Bucky. Heated focus interrupted by the sound of Natasha's voice, "Rogers, do you think you could knock it off long enough to help out here."

A body forced sudden between them, Bucky breaking Steve's hold on The Widow. Her stumbling away, Steve staggering back. Metal hand rapping hard against his chest, fingers gathering his jacket, shaking his body, "Steve. What the hell are you doing?"

Stuttered response, Steve lost in his rage, "I'm protecting you. I have to protect you."

Bucky dragging him forward, bodies pressing close, flesh hand catching his neck, pulling foreheads immediate, rasped whisper, "Not like this. Lubov moya, not by hurting her."

Steve's knees slacking weak with Bucky's touch, skin brushed to skin, breath teasing warm, hands rough move of his body. Eyes closing, rush of fatigue taking limbs and thoughts, willing give to Bucky's claiming. Fingers digging under the sweater, searching for connection, warmed by the heat of his belly, hungered slide to hips, fear of losing him driving his possessive grip. Words muttered distracted, "I'm sorry, I can't, I can't watch this."

Bucky's tone soft, affection mixed with a warning; tugging at Steve, forcing shuffled steps, "His name doesn't matter. You don't need to worry about it. I'm going after him no matter what." Mouth's brush of his beard, flirting a kiss, words murmured pricking skin, "You are not coming with me, no matter what."

Steve jerking Bucky's hips forward, bodies colliding, "You're going to have to stop me."

"I can do that. You're not gonna make me. You, are going to trust me. Like it or not."

The cluck of Mother's disgust loud enough for them to hear, not stopping their embrace.

Train whistle piercing loud, engine's hiss and groan building its start, provodnitsas call for them to board. Vendors retreating far beyond the platform, passengers tucked aboard the train, wind cutting sharp, discarded papers skittering past. Bucky too close to Steve, dissipating resolve, bathed in a yellowed pool of light.

Natasha chiming in "So much for not being seen together."

Bucky's slow release of Steve's jacket, fingers stealing skin's warmth, thumb's stroke of his beard, "While the two of you bickered over me, the platform's cleared, we've got a dozen Vory closing in, train's leaving us behind."

Steve's fingers digging into Bucky's hips, "You don't have to do this with her. Nat and I are with you. Just the three of us."

Bucky's slight roll of his head, a finger's soft caress of Steve's mouth, "I told you, I need her. You, need to stop talking to her. You promised me. She's going to get you killed." Hands digging beneath Steve's jacket, palms spread wide, taking the heat of his body, "Then I'll have to kill everyone. I don't want to kill them all, Just one. Just him."

Steve pulling him tight, mouth chasing mouth searching for the kiss; Bucky denying.

Natasha's voice, more in their ears than nearby, "This is all very sweet, the longing looks, the wandering hands, it's all very Casablanca, but we've got incoming here."

Head tilting slight towards Sokolov, Bucky directing, "You. I got you what you wanted. We are done. Your Russian memories are over there," a nod towards the box on the ground, "Carry it yourself."

Sokolov sidling closer, voice low, near a cooing whisper, intent hidden behind Russian words, "Put your Captain on the train. Forget this ridiculous journey, give yourself up, Soldat. The Vory will take us where we need to go, quickly and efficiently." Change in tone, falsely sweet, "It's the only way to keep your lover safe."

Romanova hovering near, electric blue of her weapons, a cool glow in the night, terse interjecting, "Barnes, my opinion, not that you're asking, but, I vote thumb's down on that plan. We need to all get moving."

Bucky's gaze and hands remaining on Steve, his answer for Mother in English, "Get on the train."

The Widow's steps edging closer, Cyrillic whisper hidden from Natasha, "I promise you will have your time with the Architect. Your Captain will remain safe, your Widow as well. Come with me, let them take us now."

Steve shaking Bucky's hips insisting, "I don't need to understand that, to not like the sound of it."

Sharp turn, Bucky striding towards Sokolov, a pull from Steve's grasp; body driving her back, "Get your box, and get on that fucking train." Hair's breadth of separation, taking her space, forcing her stumble, words gritted in Russian, "You say another word to him, you goad him, speak his name, call him Captain; glance for more than three seconds at him, and I am going to split you gut to throat and feed you your still-beating heart." Tremored body hovering, long hair brushing her face, Bucky's gaze cold anger, "Do you doubt me?"

Sokolov's eyes widened split second before returning hard, a tell Bucky didn't miss, her challenge hinting at shaken, "How dare you, Soldat."

"I dare because you taught me." Bucky's steps pushing her, low growled Cyrillic, "Keep in mind, they want me, not you. Get on the train or stay here alone. Your choice."

The Widow's stare measuring his intent, taking stock of his sincerity for seconds too long. Slow turn, belligerent stride, gathering the box, spine rigid, head held up embracing icy disdain. Gait a quickened fast walk, no look over her shoulder, heading towards the rumble of the train's slow roll to leave.

Threatening figures hovering in the darkness, moving bolder with the clearing of the platform and the train's building departure. Shadowed men dark figures slipping closer.

Bucky stepping forward, facing the tightening circle, glove pulled from metal fingers and shoved in a pocket. Reluctant tug of the gun from his waistband. Glance not needed, a sense of Steve at his shoulder, words spoken quiet matter-of-fact, "I don't want to fight them here."

Electric blue rapid fire of Natasha's weapons streaking bright across their vision, shadowed bodies grunting as they toppled to the ground. Her stepping between Steve and Bucky, "There's a time to fight and a time to jump a moving train. I for one, need to burn a few calories chasing a train."

Looks exchanged in seconds, Steve glancing at Bucky, eyebrow raised question not needing any words.

Bucky's glance between the two, a metal shoulder shrug an answer to her plan. Natasha sending a wide spray of stunning fire towards the Vory near to having them cut off. Last one falling in the spill of the overhead light inches from

their feet.

Three turning to race towards the steps of the final train car as it moved along the tracks. Steve forging ahead, overtaking the Widow, grabbing her arm, dragging her along. Rough pull jostling the box to land too far for them to retrieve.

Steve lifting Sokolov, tossing her towards the steps, her unexpected scream a squealing echo as she hard landed splayed out prone. A reach to grab Natasha, hands on her waist propelling her forward, a jolting crash landing on the car's rear platform handled with a Widow's graceful roll settling on her feet.

Pulling up short, Steve's sharp turn to look for Bucky, following behind. Darting steps to back him up, warned off by his voice loud panted in their comms, "Go, I got this. I'm right behind you."

Steve's shouted answer emphatic, "No. I am not leaving you."

Bucky groaned as he back peddled, watching their rear, guarding their escape, "Steve, for once, once, trust me. Get on the fucking train."

"I trust you," Steve words muttered reluctant, steps faltering forward and back; final commitment staggered towards the train. Stride taken slow at first, building to a run, final leap to land easy on the back of the car. Swinging around to watch Bucky only steps behind.

Bucky running backward, watching their rear, a race to stop the Vory staggering to their feet. Quick work to knock them down one and then the next. Furtive glance over his shoulder, seeing Steve standing on the car's back platform. A turn for a full-on run to join him, stopped short by Mother's scream, "The box, Soldat, I dropped the box."

Steve yelling panicked, "No Buck, don't. Leave it. Damn it leave it." Scrambling down the steps, ready to jump, held back by Natasha grabbing his arm. "No, he'll make it. Trust him. He'll make it."

Bucky veering his direction, striding hard, thighs burning in the chase, deft reach to scoop the box from the ground, not breaking his stride. Muscles coiled burn, heart pounding ache tightening his chest. Tossing the box as he caught up with the fast-moving train. The box splattering hard against the back of the car, its contents falling scattered before the Widow's feet.

Darkness engulfing the tracks as the train's speed picked up, leaving the yellowed glow of the station's lights. Colder air surrounding, Bucky's panted breaths visible in the air, Steve watching him run chasing after the train. Time standing still, painful seconds lasting minutes in his mind.

Bucky slowing down. Stride shortened, steps faltering, glint of moonlight on a metal hand pumping as he ran. Sweat-soaked skin, hair blown unkempt by the pounding of his body and the icy wind of a Russian night. Gray eyes hinting a decision that only Steve could see.

Grated whisper meant for Bucky, spoken silent in Steve's mind, "Don't. Don't do this."

Hanging precarious from the bottom step, Steve's arm outstretched, body straining desperate, fingers reaching. Words rasping raw, "Don't you dare give up. I know what you're thinking, I know what you're doing. I won't let you do this."

Voice drowning in rattled noises, Bucky's answer choked on pulled in air, "It's better this way. You'll be safe."

Rush of panic crushing pain across Steve's chest, pulse pounding in his head. Wrapping a leg around the metal rail, fingertips white raw from the strain of his reach. Regret driving his confession, voice hoarse against rattling wheels, near stolen by harsh wind, Steve's whispered hope that Bucky could still hear him, "I love you."

Aching groan as Bucky kicked harder, pain shooting hips to knees to soles. Steps pounding driven along the rocky railbed, chasing the train carrying Steve. Eyes clear focused on his outstretched hand, determined not to miss it again. Adrenalin fueling every cell, body pushing harder, daring reach, metal fingers brush of flesh, sending a fired jolt along his arm.

Fingers tight entwined, palm's slide to desperate grip, Steve catching Bucky's hand, fibers burning with his effort, worth every second of the pain.

Bucky making a staggered leap, body launched full-force landing in Steve's arms, both in a stumbling fall, knocking Natasha to the floor. A sprawling tangled mess, breaths grunted short.

Steve wrapping Bucky arms and legs, hands catching his neck holding him possessive, fingers digging deep grasping hair. Mouths so close heat of breath warming lips chapped cold by the frigid night.

Panted efforts taking air, Bucky gasping a word between each breath, "What did you say?"

Eyes closing, shaking his head, Steve tugging him tight bound by his body, "I need you. I said I need you." Fingers carding an owning grip of Bucky's hair, a hold near crushing his chest.

Knees drawn up to straddle Steve's hips, Bucky squirming free enough to let eyes meet, silent pointed study. A finger's trace of lips, a dip to tease his tongue, watching eyes close in aching want, Bucky letting seconds pass, leaning to whisper against Steve's mouth "Liar." Sudden anxious whine, mouths desperate meeting, Bucky taking the kiss, Steve not denying him.

The Voice's weighing in thoroughly ignored.

 _"Soldat: Three. One for making Mother piss her pants. One for putting your foot down with the Captain, and one for heroically saving that damn box of shit food. Luckily there was nothing breakable. By the way. Mother: Zero. The Captain: Zero. You're coming up in the world."_


	21. Chapter 21 Semblance of the Sane

Door clicking shut behind Bucky's back, gaze on the floor, holding still count of three letting the heat and noise and press of the crowded car wrap around him in an uneasy comfort. Eyes brought up slow to study the line of packed tables; the dining car a well-groomed echo of the past. Wooden furniture, window décor old opulent, paintings darkened by light and time, still recognizable to a Russian or a Soldier.

 _"_ _ _Nice curtains. Fancy. Gold though, a bit brassy don't you think?"__

"What the hell? You don't know shit about curtains." Bucky's comeback to the Voice, half-mumbled aloud, pulled back when he caught the squinted stare from a kid too close tucked near his right elbow.

Bucky standing butt cheeks glued apprehensive against the dining car's door, feet refusing to move an inch. Backpack clutched schoolboy tight to his chest, metal hand gloved hidden, head and stomach near overwhelmed by the assailing of his senses.

Aromas spiced and sharp filling nostrils, gut clenched as a reminder of not eating, no sense trying to remember in how long. A throwback to his days as the Soldier, ignore the spin in his head and power through.

 _"_ _ _So this is what you missed. At least the Architect's cell gave you some elbow room. No food, or chairs, or bed, well or a window, no sense having curtains without a window. At least there were bars between you and the sniveling little faces."__

Head ducked, shoulder rolled, answer muttered against the backpack, "Knock it off, asshole." Sideways darted glance at the boy 's continued stare. Bucky upping the ante, a direct look down of his own, meeting the deep-brown gaze, cheeks smoothed impassive, the child more curious than afraid. The pensive near peaceful look missing the fear, an unexpected change unnerving in its acceptance. A turn to escape the gaze, willing concession to the spiky-haired boy.

 _"_ _ _Loser. There was a time you'd toss him out the window. The closed window."__

Shuffled steps angling his back to the boy, Bucky grumbled, "Listen, you're the one I'd like to toss you out the window."

 _"_ _ _You'll have to come with me. A reenactment of your dramatic fall, only not as far. You'll likely be in one piece when the Vory find you. Not like that unfortunate mess the first time. Then again, you gained a spectacular appendage..."__

"Shut the hell up," a groan hard fought to keep internal. Bucky closing eyes gritted dry, head dropped to bump against the door, fatigue spreading an ache through body, mind, and soul.

Breath pulled in, eyes opened, resigning turn to face the packed dining car, gaze darting table to table, forced casual, a cover for his real-world reconnaissance. Two couples near corner, boisterous singing, shot glasses slammed on the table, blue-labeled vodka passing hand-to-hand. Quick deemed not a threat.

On his right, short man, bulging belly, weary-looking woman, spike-haired boy, toddler pounding a spoon dysrhythmic on the table. The man's flick of an eye towards Bucky's clutch of his belongings filed away a notch above benign.

Attention pulled along the aisle, quartet of young travelers, English words heated and crass, bickering over sleeping arrangements. Tinning grate in his hearing, head tilted faint to ward away their distraction.

Directly across, cramped space, white-haired man, two efficient dressed women, eyes averted, silent focus caught rapt by a spread of barely touched food. Skipped beat of recognition, memory's flash to Mother's face and form. Bucky covert studying each individual, body sense reminder of the knife nestled at his back.

Every seat filled, tables taken, chatter loud and soft lilting under the grit of Russian song. Sharp clinking woven through the human noise, plates cleaned by utensils, glasses meeting in a toast; the train's incessant rumbled vibration chasing anxious through his soles.

Steve's sweater, hem uneven from thumbs finding a grounding comfort, hanging too long. Bucky tugging neckline obsessive, the misshapen stretch exposing pale skin, hard bone. Hair pulled up by Romanova's pilfered scrunchie, messy bun lifting hair from a neck dampened by sweat.

Far end of the car an empty table across from the cook, resigned sigh before elbows pushed his back from the door. Breaths pulled in steady, rhythmic counting settling the heat taking his thoughts. Cautious passing each table wading through the sea of people.

Bucky's slow progression down the aisle, discreet scanning side-to-side, abrupt stopped by a thin young woman, hair pulled up, brown ending in blonde; palms flat on the backpack between them, blocking his path. Cyrillic words, lilting voice, attempting to be firm, "Sir, we're done seating, it's past our serving hours."

A shiver chasing up his spine, pressured touch even through the pack held close against his chest; the Soldier telling to push her away, instinct holding steady, conscious thought winning out.

Bucky giving her a smile bordering shy, playing a role, a method nearly forgotten. Nervous pull, lip caught by teeth, head tilted coy; distant echo of who he might have been ages before drowning in Hydra's hold. Soft Cyrillic words begging her mercy, not entirely a fake; wanting this to work, meeting Steve in the dining car, some semblance of the sane. Asking the girl to bend the rules towards a hungry traveler too enthralled with the sights and sounds of the train to get the service times right.

Tenuous lean forward, Bucky fighting the noise, eyes steady caught by an innocent gaze not something he'd seen in recent memory, not from a stranger. Voice cracking uncertain, Russian words perfect, "I'm meeting, a friend. I promised we'd eat together. I messed up the times, the plans, he's hungry. I promised."

Seconds hanging expectant, her face attempting stern, betrayed by the kindness in her eyes. Bucky nudging her over the edge, slight wag of his head, a tremor channeled as endearing, a whispered, "Please?"

The girl's quick nod, fingers light tug of a gloved hand, sending anxiety's rush across his thoughts; her touch gone before he could pull metal fingers away. Her turn to lead him to the end of the car, never showing if she'd noticed or cared about the aberrant firmness of his hand. Bucky following, spread of warmth across skin, holding close the fleeting moment of normalcy beyond his life with Steve.

 _"_ _ _You're pathetic, Soldat, she's too terrified to say a word about your vibranium digits."__

Teeth catching his cheek, holding his words, Bucky followed the girl's maneuvering of the crowded car, thanks nodded, faint smile returned soft as she pointed to the table; clattering of broken dishes calling her away.

Settling quick and rigid, aisle seat, last table, back pressed upright tense against the wall. Deep breath in, slow exhaled steadying nerves he couldn't recall from his time as the Soldier. Fingers clutching the backpack, body tight coiled waiting for something to go wrong.

Bead of sweat trickling temple to cheek flushed skin beneath the jacket; the heat of the packed car, anxiety's rush scattering thoughts, raising his discomfort. Sights and sounds ticking rhythmic in his head, driving a knee to jig unaware, nervous energy finding a path, brain to body to floor.

 _"_ _ _This is why they wiped your memories. The uncertainty, the hesitation; your inability to function as a human being. Take your coat off before the Vory smell your fear."__

Eyes tight shut for a second's rest gritted mumble "Fuck you, not why they wiped me." Bucky shrugged off the jacket, balling it up on the chair by the window. Backpack settled on top zipper open, gun stock nestled close within a reflexive reach.

Kitchen counter to his right, stern-faced woman, stout form, apron wrapping neck to knees, soiled evidence of a long day's work; scrapping food dish to dish. Pots thrown clattering into a sink, loud ring in his hearing, a startle bringing a hand's discreet grab of the gun cradled at his belly.

 _"_ _ _Jumpy aren't we? Mindwipe needed. I rest my case."__

Bucky defensive sitting on his hands, nervous glance towards the door, anxious for Steve. His eye drawn to the spiky-haired boy; unwavering stares being exchanged, fleeting seconds of paranoia ticking sweat to his chest, conscious thought to quiet his mind. Gray eyes watching dark brown, throwing Bucky into the past.

Thoughts chasing memories buried over time, drawn up fresh with Bucky's stepping on the train. The boxcar full of children, ragged clothes, thin bodies, souls hiding behind expressionless eyes. The boy at the far end of the car stirring memories of the Architect's obsession turned into a business.

A tickle at the back of his brain urging him to question the boy, calculated glance at the man at the table, sitting nervous still. The woman's hand wrapping the boy's arm, tense body, tilted gaze, catching Bucky's cold stare from the corner of her eye.

"Here's our menu." Russian words nearly drowned in the rattle and hum of the dining car, the soft-spoken waitress jerking Bucky from his stare towards the boy. Nodding his thanks as she walked away, gaze darting back to a quartet of empty chairs, last-second glimpse of a threadbare sweater as the weary-woman slipped through the dining car's door.

 _"_ _ _You're letting them get away, Soldat."__

Tongue slipping scant wetness to parched lips, "There's no rush, I know where they're going." Bucky's words muttered resigned, hidden by the dip of his head. The car slow emptying, gaze moving to study the diners; slipping towards shades half drawn, ragged tassels bouncing erratic, focus caught by the darkness beyond the glass.

Bucky's body weighing heavy, giving in to the train's lull of sights and sounds. Wheels rumbling steady rhythmic along endless rail seams. Shadows passing quick, home lights streaking past in the murk of a frigid night. Vast expanse of blackness, gray hinted snow; mission memories conjured erratic, faces jumbled featureless, pain stabbing ghosted to scars serum healed. Hard swallow, dry-throated recollections of life as the Soldier, guilt building an ache in his gut, spreading cold tightness insidious laying claim to his body, numbing his thoughts.

Focus shifting from past to now, eye catching his reflection in the glass. Bucky watching himself, mouth curved sad, eyes darkened, hair strands framing loose, comforting curtain to hide behind. Warped image looking back, half-formed shadow of himself. Thoughts chasing tangential, his plan not a plan at all; despair edging certainty, guilt wrestling hope.

Steve's "Hi," soft-spoken near a whisper on the comm in Bucky's ear, pulling him from the edge of his self-loathing. Heat spiraling out across his cheek, familiar voice caressing skin, an ache to feel his touch.

Hint of a smile curving, breath hitched sharp let out as a sigh, slow turn searching the car; finding Steve head and shoulders rising above the crowd. "I saved you a seat," Bucky's hands tucked under his thighs, biting a lip, eyes widened as he watched him approach, relief spreading warmth.

Steve's promise murmured, "I'll sit here, far away," grabbing the back of a chair, "Three tables away, right?"

Bucky shaking his head, whispering anxious, "No, Sit here, with me. I want you with me."

Steve's look unsure, "I thought you didn't want us seen together," holding his steps.

"I know I said that. Before. I just need you here now, with me."

Steve maneuvering the length of the car, gaze never breaking from Bucky's face. Slow pace ending at the corner of the table.

Bucky looking up head tilted back, relief smoothing furrowed skin, tension falling away; watching Steve standing over him, wanting to be pulled into his arms. Gaze darting from eyes to a hand reaching, soft caress of his cheek intended. Clear on Steve's face, on his fingers, his body's lean; pulled back with the noise of dishes clattering in the sink, both glancing at the cook, breaking the moment.

Huffed laugh, Steve settling into the chair across from Bucky, a smile returned warm, "Okay. We'll put our phones out, all business right?"

Pulling hands from under his thighs, Bucky dug the phone from his backpack, tossing it on the table, "I'm a covert assassin, I know how to do this."

Steve countering quiet, "Sure, sure. Not anymore though. Not an assassin anymore."

Near smile slipping to sad, Bucky nodded, "Almost. One more."

"No," Steve jerking forward, palms laid hard flat on the table, eyes intent, voice firm "This is judgment, payback, not that, not you anymore." Fisted hand to the table, forks bouncing, dishes shaken with his anger.

Bucky catching his breath, letting seconds pass, faintest of tremor shaking. Flesh hand reaching for Steve's, held a hair away from connecting, voice uncertain, "The way you look at me. I don't know."

Steve shaking his head, tension released with his breath, "How? How do I look at you?"

Bucky muttered, "Like I deserve this."

Steve's face hinting worry, "What? Punishment, judgment?"

Answer blurted, "You," a moment passing, "Like I deserve, forgiveness."

"Buck, you do. More, you deserve more than that. You..." Steve's words cut short by the waitress bumping their table, her gaze moving from Bucky to Steve, pen, and pad in her hands, body language telling them to make up their minds.

Steve's look not wavering, eyes locked on Bucky speaking to the girl. Attention not shaken by deft handling of Cyrillic words, unknown meaning, tone reassuring. Focus shifting to the menu, dutiful study interrupted when Bucky started to laugh, final admission as he pushed the paper into his chest, "I can't read this. What should I get?"

Bucky's smile widening, answer immediate, "Blini. You should get blini."

"What's that?"

"Pancakes basically." Bucky scooting forward, finger run along the menu, one foot searching under the table, pressured tap with Steve's sneaker as he spoke words matching rhythmic, "You like pancakes, I know you do."

Soft laugh, Steve's foot pushing back, "Okay. Which one is it?"

"The third one down on the left. And the second one, get that too."

"What is it?" Steve's voice cracking when Bucky's metal fingers toyed gentle with his knee hidden from prying eyes, "Should I trust you?"

"Trust me? Yes always." Bucky watching Steve's face, blush of pink spreading neck to cheek. Fingers slipping further up his leg, thumb finding flesh, digging deep, the double meaning of his words not lost on Steve, "You'll like it. Right up your alley. Meat and potatoes. I know what you like, plus I know what'll make you puke."

Steve not hiding his smile, "That you do."

Bucky's tilt of his head towards the waitress, hinting shy, launching into their order, a point to their choices. Cyrillic words flowing natural, soft smile his thanks as she walked away. A turn to watch Steve again.

Steve leaning forward, hand flirting close to Bucky's fingers, "I guess this is our first official date."

Bucky's smirk bordering flirtatious, "No. Not really. That was years ago."

"When? I don't remember."

"I asked you out to the movies. You were ten; I was eleven. I pretended we were on a date."

Steve's voice barely a whisper, "You never said anything."

Bucky shaking his head, shrugging it off, "No. different times. How could I tell you?"

Words spoken slowly, "You put your arm around my shoulders, Buck." Steve's brow furrowed pulling memories forward, skin smoothed as the settled in place, "I remember that. You held me."

"I did." Eyes growing brighter seeing Steve remember.

"I thought you were stretching. I'm sorry. I wish I knew."

"Yup. I was copping a feel. Rogers." Wide smile slipping pensive, brightness retreating. "I held onto that moment as long as I could, you know that. They couldn't take it, not for a long time." Deep breath, shaking sigh, "Took so much for them to steal you away."

"Stop. No more about them. Just you and I now. New memories. Dinner here together. Give me your hand. Forget this stupid game." Steve reaching for Bucky's hand, him pulling it away.

"No. They're everywhere. This is hard enough, don't ask. Just keep your eyes on me. Talk to me. Don't let me go."

Steve leaning forward, hand slipping down his leg, finding Bucky's fingers tight wrapping, hidden from view, holding onto one another, skin blanching white, pain deep-seated not mattering, "I won't. I won't ever let you go again."

Bucky letting time pass, watching Steve, fleeting wonder why he'd say "Again."

Steve studying his face, "How do I say thank you?"

Bucky's answer immediate, his smile an echo of their past, "You'll fuck me stupid when we get home."

"No, um, Yes. I mean, I meant the waitress. How do I say thank you in Russian."

"Oh. Right." Bucky blurted laugh growing louder, hiccupped breath, tears wetting his cheeks.

Steve catching Bucky's laugh, letting it move through his chest, shaking his body, falling to a murmur aching, "God I love that sound. Your laugh. I need it. It fills me. I can't live without it. I want to go home. With you, Buck…" Words and laughter cut short by the waitress coming back, dishes laid out between them, her leaving as quickly as she came.

Bucky pulling himself together, smile slipping away, eyes locked on Steve. Seconds passing watching him. Answer finally muttered, "Spaseba. Thank you is spaseba. Lubov moya."

Steve rubbing aside laughter's tears, "Are you swearing at me again? What did I do this time?"

"It's not. Not a swear." Bucky pulling in a deep breath, letting time pass, adding, "Haven't you ever heard of Google translate? Even I know about that."

"How do you spell that."

"Sound it out."

Steve sounding it out, typing careful into his phone, "Lubov moya." Features shifting determined to confused to surprised. A minute staring at his phone, soft whispering, "You couldn't say that in English?"

Bucky's smile slipping away, voice a quiet murmur, "You said it. Then you lied. You took it back."


	22. Chapter 22 We Share the Same Sins

"You lied to me." Tone barely even, throat clenching dry choking on reality's fear; Bucky forcing the phrase, measured and clear. Four words taking all his breath, chest aching for Steve's answer, thoughts race embracing the worst. Tremor betraying fight internal, guarding emotions, hard to accept; mind-numbing realization, hiding his heart from Steve.

Breath pulled in deep purposeful, pushing words across lips wanting the taste of his skin, not this, not starting this fight. Confronting what he knew he'd heard, sure, positive; maybe not, maybe not so sure. Mind playing it's tricks. Bucky shaken uncertain needing reassurance, wishing he could go without; letting gates open, voice staggering cracked, "You said it." Heart's beat relentless, breast tight containment holding it together, not letting it shatter, "You took it back." Eyes closed, stolen respite, gathering the pieces scattered random across mind and soul, final surety whispered firm, one word breathed at a time, "I. Heard. You."

Steve's confession echoing loud and soft in memory's embrace, words taken back as quick as they spilled; the phrase left hanging, desperate reach in the dark coldness of a Russian night.

Thin veil defensive, Bucky's eyes opened, pain hinted in their sheen, metaphorical knife to his gut, tentacled ache spreading heat's insidious crawl under skin chilled by sweat. Driving bile's burn of his throat, choking his beg, his ask for explanations, the need wrapped stifling around lungs struggling to breathe.

Needing to hear Steve's words, feel a heart beating warm against his cheek. Not here, not like this, crowded dining car, noise drowning their talk, overwhelming thoughts grasping for the anchor of Steve's touch, a smile's soft reassurance, unwavering acceptance. Shaken in the wake of his denial.

Quieting tremors conscious, hard grip table's edge, settling finger's twitch, body stillness, gaze piercing demand, maybe a wish, a hope, secret prayer if he dared address a god after all his hands had done. Metal fingers finding tendons taut, muscles braced into his grip, Steve not drawing his knee away, not flinching from the pain. Bucky finding a glimmer of hope, grounded panic in pulse of flesh delicate held under the grip of vibranium sensors.

Doubt's creep stealing logic, Bucky's mind bending what he heard. Thrill of feelings from the moment fading over time, lost amid the dining car's clamor. Faith's last thread nearly severed by the hissing in his head.

 _"You're an idiot, Soldat. You're dung to his perfect, broken to his worth, burden to his strength. You will always be his albatross, bloated weight, dark staining his legacy, stealing his life, his friends, his shield. You're a good fuck, that's all it is. Take you, use you, throw you away."_

"Stop it." Muttered protest weak, Bucky not disagreeing. Gaze pulled to faint shadow in the chair next to Steve, darting back to meet eyes reflecting worry; maybe concern, not sure, could be cold, or disdain, hope for love settling for pity. Shame sending a red blush to pale cheeks, words spilling desperate, nothing left but telling the truth, "The Voice, it's talking, it's saying things, I don't wanna listen. I don't. Please help me understand. You lied? You said that word then not?"

Steve's voice kept even weighted, "I did not lie." Honest stated fact left dangling incomplete. Gaze steady meeting Bucky, tenuous hope of satisfaction knowing deep-seated not enough, not what Bucky wanted to hear, deserved to hear. Heart demanding his attention, pulsed beats pounding ribs, throbbed a temple, a wrist, turning a gut never fazed by battles, twisted sick with a task owed, needed, wanted. Telling him the truth.

Forever sure of their connection, core knowing from eyes first glance ages past, feelings rooted to depths well past Steve's conscious mind. Words swirling erratic tossed whirlwind, peace and hope terror wrapped insidious. Sorting it out, feelings spoken out loud, given a name, a place, a date; threatening delicate balance, losing his control.

Steve leading the way, knowing his mind, breath steady every step; childhood illness, mother's death, serum enhanced, war-torn to frozen to Twenty-First Century, not one thing shaking his strength except this one. Order teetering with chaos, heart walled in by his resolve, fear stealing life meant to be born in the words Bucky waited to hear.

Slow breath buying Steve time, willing palm's sweat to cool dry, eyes not wandering from Bucky, the right words pushed forward by his soul, losing to the practical, "I need you, I want you. Can we just hold onto that for now?" Imagined hand reaching out, wanting words meant sincere to stroke the stubble of a cheek; getting lost in the tangled comfort of dark hair. Wishing reassurance could take Bucky's doubts, stroke skin craved every second of separation; real fingers held at bay, hands laid placid on the table.

Heart and mind, words, and soul wanting Bucky to know his feelings, sinew, and cell embedded for both; never lost or doubted again, wishing him filled complete with all he had to say. Steve loving Bucky. Felt heart deep irrefutable, scorched permanent to brain and skin.

Truth held hostage by the abyss; demanding to be spoken open and honest, locked tight bound within a heart too close to falling apart. Bucky coming home, struggling to adjust, counting threes, anxiety manifest, voices and ghosts, paranoia, despair; drowning in the aftermath of Hydra's cruelty. Steve's glimpse of himself, feeling Bucky's pain, sharing ghosts in their dreams. Not telling him his truth, how he teetered on the edge, history taking what it's due. Fear of falling apart if he speaks those words out loud, facing Bucky, trust given, hope reflected in his eyes. Not wanting to fail him, Steve's conviction, words spoken aloud will crumble his facade, leaving Bucky lost alone. So sure he held all the strength for them both. Wanting to be the one who saves Bucky in the end.

Bucky shaken, not giving up, calling him out, "You need me, I know. Not the same, not what you said. You took it back." History burned deep in memory, knowing with eyes closed, breath held Steve's tics and tells, childhood ingrained; eyebrow raised, subtle hint of disagreement. Head angled right, eye contact broken, purposeful avoidance. Fingertips tense grasping a fork, food shuffled absent, careless spill to the table ignored, thoughts scrambling near visible, not matching actions or words. Straight back, shoulders erect slumping with a breath sighed close; a glimpse of his frustration. Steve's body telling the story only Bucky could read; feelings held guarded, walling him out. Observations found through eyes that studied long intimate, friend and lover; not gathered cold by a calculating soldier.

Bucky not wanting to see Steve with that gaze ever again.

Bucky's stare tearing at guarded words and defenses, Steve shifted restless, his meeting accusations by changing the focus, "Come on, we came here to eat. Let's eat, we can talk about this later." Discomfort channeled towards the table, dishes studied closer than deserved; a glass picked up, placed down, contents not touched, food's meager sample tasted, nodded approval, not matching its simplicity. Flipping the phone to lie near, screen up, finger's tap seemingly mindless, searching page after page; guilt choking his silent hope for an interrupting call.

Glance darting from phone to plates, to the cook rattling dishes. Not finding solace in his surroundings, Steve brought his gaze to meet the unrelenting gray eyes soul-deep reflection of their history. Mirrored look of his avoidance found in that gaze, unremitting light of trust dimmed with every second allowed to pass, letting his silence fill the void.

Bucky smiled. Bittersweet, a laugh not from humor, more broken than demanding, "No. Say it. Right here, right now. Say it again."

Ache taking Steve's heart, watching that smile, Bucky's ask innocent and real, deserving the truth. Air trying to escape lungs tight closing down, Steve's mind forming the words spoken silent a thousand times, bright Coney sun, laughter embraced; illness wracked body, death held at bay by Bucky's stubborn will. Bone cold nights, tenement drafts; engulfed by possessive warmth. Uniformed soldier off to war, guarding his fear; Steve playing the part, best friend left behind. Gut-wrenched revelation on a D. C. street. Blood-soaked floor of their home, Bucky taking his own life, defending Steve, dead Voices urging a mission be finished.

Cherished words owed screamed across the universe, evident in a touch, a smile, actions taken, sacrifice freely given; kept a secret, whispered delicate to hair soaked wet from their sex, cradled protective in his arms. Not uttered loud enough for him to hear.

Steve forming his declaration, breath capturing the sound, fighting their way to his tongue. Heart shoving them forward, desperate to be spoken, nearly breathed into life; stumbling over logic; telling himself logic, hard slap of fear tripping him up. His saying something else, not the words demanding to be spoken, choked whisper wrapped disingenuous, "Not now."

Bucky knowing Steve core deep, seeing his struggle play across features burned to memory by time and loss; jaw twitched tense, reticence worn obvious on a brow, eyes telling sadness, laced in the tone of only two words.

Taking a breath seconds passed, searching for stable. Bucky dragging back his heart, hiding in iciness taught merciless by handlers; never thinking he'd need their lessons facing Steve, "Are you saying I didn't hear it? I'm hearing things?" Glove pulled from metal hand, caution discarded, single metal finger pressed hard to his temple, red evidence of his touch. "Voices, not just The Voice, you know that Voice, but now I'm hearing your voice. Only it's not your voice?" Grasping the table's edge, dishes rattled, sharp lean taking the space between them, tremored evidence of Bucky's tenuous calm, "You said 'Only listen to my voice, Buck, only my voice' and that is what I'm trying to do, but now you're lying and saying, 'No not what I said,' so now I do what? What do I do now, Steve? Ignore you?"

Steve's lean quick closing the gap, Bucky's breath warm against his face, flash of memory's image. Darkened room, knees straddling hips rhythmic; their fit together consuming perfect. Foreheads pressed, shared breaths intimate, resolve shaken to a stammer, "No. Not lying. I'm not saying you didn't hear something, that I didn't say it, something..."

Argument left hanging, watched confusion in Bucky's eyes. Steve's darting look to lips parted to argue, pink wetness pulling him in. Heart drawn by need, head urging take the kiss, ghosted taste of his mouth called to his tongue. Body craving flesh, memory's reminder tight darkness, heated skin, guttural moans pulled by the touch of his tongue, stroke of fingers. Steve's reach stealing a brush of hands, fingers toyed caress, decision made split-second to grab a wrist, pull Bucky away, finding a space discreet. Plans jerked back with the cracked sound of metal pans, clattering loud near their feet.

The cook's groaned cough, disapproving glower as she bent dramatic, inches away to gather the pans purposeful dropped. Pointed stare, mumbled Cyrillic words catching their attention. Steve settling reluctant back in his chair, not wanting to pull away, Bucky already withdrawn, the moment lost to a disapproving eye. Steve returning her look with a cold glance of his own before attention shifted back, muttering, "I want you to eat. You need to eat."

Bucky stirring in his chair, color drained from cheeks, awareness taking in car's occupants' furtive glances hinting judgments. "You can't be doing that here," warning Steve, "We can't do that here. The locals, they don't approve of people - like us."

"Us? Like us. What exactly does that mean? Americans? Can they see the serum glow? Guys sitting together?"

"You know what it means. Us. Men kissing men."

Steve leaning closer, a thumb jerked towards the two couples, far corner, "Ah, that table over there, I know I saw that guy with the leather jacket plant a cheek kiss on the guy with the suspenders, so not sure how we're different."

Bucky's answer drawled, "Us. On the mouth. With tongue."

Steve letting a beat pass, not backing away, stubborn defiance, "I don't care what they think, what anyone thinks. About us, who we kiss or fuck or - care about."

"No, you wouldn't. Would you?" Bucky's smile pensive, "Not Captain America. Not Nomad. You're not afraid of anyone or anything."

"What bullshit is this? You've never called me Cap, don't start now."

Bucky unrelenting, "Not afraid of anyone." Anxiety channeled into a spoon, curled useless by metal fingers, adding in a whisper, "Except me."

Steve catching Bucky's wrist, dragged closer, fingers dig holding tight against a struggled pull, "Knock it off. It's not you. I'm not afraid of you. Not what this is about."

Wrist twisted free, Bucky's withdraw a muttered, "Let go of me," challenging glance of the cook's cold stare, hands tucked between his knees, gaze dropped to the table, "Sure, sure. Not about me."

"Fine. No more holding hands," Steve's palms laid reluctant flat, heart wanting to lift a face turned down, caress a cheek, reassure with his touch, his body. Instead, words spoken restrained guarding his uncertainty, "If that's what you want, not anyone else, not pressure or fear or people staring at us. Only if you don't want me touching you."

Seconds passing interminable, Bucky's response a stillness. Steve breaking the silence, "How about eating, then?" Sliding a spoon across the table, "Here, food's getting cold."

Bucky shaking his head, hope's fade to disappointed, "Not hungry. Cold is fine. It's borscht, it's supposed to be cold."

Steve rearranging gravied meat around his plate, sampling a bite, "You ordered cold soup? You haven't eaten in days, and you ordered cold soup."

"Cold, hot, what's it matter? It's food. It's what they, what I like. What I want." Flesh hand taking the spoon, metal fingers shoving an errant lock of hair from his eyes, getting caught in the tangle. Wriggling hand and head, fingers twisted struggle to free strands trapped in the grooves, his fight quick escalating. Sighed frustration, yanking futile at the scrunchie, hair knotted crooked, the tie pulling partway loose, hanging askew, bumping his cheek. A groan meant internal muttered out loud.

Steve's reach to help, "Let me get it," curt swatted aside.

Bucky trying again jolted tug, strands tearing from his head, stuck in metal joints, flesh hand jarred, the spoon tumbled square in the soup, splattered on the table, staining his sweater, splashing his face. Darting look at Steve, reading pity in his worry. Heat flushing skin embarrassed, needing to escape that look, Steve's sorrow watching him struggle with the simplest of tasks.

"Fuck, forget it. Don't. Just don't look at me like that." Chair pushed back rapping the wall, last of the diners startled quiet with the crack and Bucky's flustered rise, dragging the backpack, jacket tripping him up, a staggering lunge towards the door.

Steve catching an arm, fingers dug deep possessive, stopping his fall. Panic unfamiliar, tightening his chest, mind's grasp of one thought lurking constant unremitting; not again, losing him, not again, heart's fear choking breath, mind rushing numb with that single desperate plea, 'Don't let him leave.' Pulse's bound visible at temples felt deep in his chest. Bucky struggling in his hold.

"No. You can't go." Steve hating himself for want of a phrase affectionate, a word simple spoken; no doubt of his devotion, certain, clear, beating every second in his chest. Should be easy to let one word slip past lips imbued with Bucky's taste; skin and tongue, body intimate. Heart's deepest desire not spoken out of fear. Driving Bucky's doubt, pushing him away.

"Don't leave." Feelings sitting surface close, taunting Steve's brain, love expressed repeated; soft gestures caring, stolen caress, affections shown minute to minute, an easy kiss to sex exhausted and spent, the words always silent mouthed in the end. Fear smothering his voice, allowing only the mundane.

"Sit down." Breath held willing time's slowing. Steve turned wearing his concern, hoping eyes showed what his voice wouldn't couldn't speak, a whispered, "Please," wanting that word to carry the weight of all his meaning.

Bucky torn. Shame vying with need; sweater caught in Steve's grip, twisted try to break free, not trying that hard; craving the touch he fought to escape. Here and now, public or private, body aching to be held, a finger's brush to skin, lips pressed fleeting to tender flesh. Hand's tight grip of his arm, sensors heated with a promise, a palm's familiar claim, electric chase across sinew man-made jolting hot into his brain. Hungered ache wanting Steve's touch, body weight's press taking breath in memory's dreams. 

That touch, heated and firm, not enough, Bucky wanting the words given life; irrational need. Logic aware, knowing truth shared daily, a look, a touch, a tease, hair tousled messy. Echoes of Steve standing his ground in his defense, challenging Stark, facing the world feet planted hard, not allowing their stealing him away. Every second of every day from first step across home's doorstep. Knowing that Steve loves him. Guilt deep-seated relentless draining certainty, sewing seeds of darkening doubt.

"Please don't walk away from me." Steve's voice heavy-laden, emotions churning beneath a thin surface of control. "I need you to stay here with me." Jerking Bucky's arm, a step forced back, voice betraying fear masked as demand, "I need you to sit down, eat a meal with me." Steady pressure holding Bucky's arm, a beg loose wrapped as an order, "I need you right where I can see you."

Bucky seeing through Steve's defenses, wanting to give in, needing those hands on his body, his voice out-weighing all others, taking control. Watching every tic and line of his face, jaw firmness hidden by a beard, muscled clench marking his certainty, strength worn comfortable, square-shouldered, steady gaze. Faint glimmer of panic chasing across features memorized as stubborn. Bucky seeing Steve's falter vulnerable, his look not pity but scared, not mocking but need. Letting the hand gripping his arm pull him back, push his body, feet moved to stumble to his chair, back of his hand wiping at the dampness on his cheek.

Relief breathed as a sigh, fatigue's sudden wash across muscles and mind. Steve rearranging dishes, fork toying with food, anxiety searching for a focus, "This looks good, pancakes, right?"

Bucky muttering, "Blini, it's blini," settling uncomfortable, metal hand tucked discreet beneath his thigh.

"Okay, blini, I thought you said pancakes," Steve tasting the food," They're good, whatever they're called." Tentative pushing the plate towards Bucky, "Try a bite."

"Not pancakes, Like pancakes, I know they're good. I remember."

Steve filling his fork, "Look at this, whipped cream, blueberries, all your favorites." Thick slice of fried blini, dripping white cream tinted blue, an offer extended enticing, murmured laugh, "I see you staring at it."

"Don't feed me," Bucky catching Steve's wrist, holding him still. Pressured insistence more than Bucky wanted to fight, not missing glinted amusement, hinted desire, shared moments intimate reflected in Steve's eyes. Hand moving closer, aroma sweet, warm, mouth-watering, eyes fluttering shut. A pulse bounding beneath fingertips, taste's memory flirting, tongue slipping to brush tip to the sweetness.

Breath pulled in to speak all the opening Steve needed to slide his offering past lips reluctant parted. Faint shudder felt between them, finger's hold of a pulse, teeth's grasp of the tines, head raised, throat's slow swallow evident, Bucky's eyes half-lidded invitation, lip tugged suggestive, teasing message, not about food.

Steve tripping over that look distracted; finding his voice, chatter mingled with food shared a bite at a time, a taste for himself, heaped offer for Bucky, "Good, Right? I know you like that. Like when I feed you. Remember last month, the Lo Mein?" Switching dishes, blini to meat, gentle insistence, "We had the house to ourselves. Three AM. It led to some spectacular sex, remember? Kitchen island, the floor, the deck, twenty below zero." Gaze falling more amused than pensive, memory rushing forward, words whispered recalling their sex, "Love the way your sweat formed that glassy sheen in the cold; your chest, your thighs, even your ass - spectacular."

Genuine smile bordering lustful at Bucky's acknowledging nod, "Jesus, Stevie," mumbled by a mouth stuffed with food.

"Sorry. Just, wish we were home, not here. Not doing this." Steve, shaking free from memories, stirring a spoon in the borscht, "Okay, let's try this cold soup."

Bucky chewing, garbled words, "I don't want it. Stop it."

Steve tasting the borscht, a mixed review kind of nod, "Not bad, here ya go."

Hand raised Bucky's gestured stop, "Hold up. I'm stuffed."

Insistent push of the spoon, Steve spilling drops as he pressed, white dribble slipping down Bucky's chin, "You've barely eaten half of this stuff. Come on, no wonder you're so thin, the serum burns calories, Buck, you need to eat more..."

"Fuck off Steve. Stop it." Protest garbled, Bucky's lean away, irritated, "You're avoiding me." Exaggerated chew, trying to swallow.

Steve's pointing soup to chin, hand waved gesture to wipe the spill, Bucky not taking the cue. Slipping his words between his gestures, "Avoiding you? How? I'm right here, feeding you, making a mess."

Bucky scooting forward, taking the space, inches from Steve, words pressured demanding, "Avoiding the conversation. You know, the one about that word. What you said and took back and now I'm confused and needy as fuck and feeling stupid."

Steve voicing tender, "You're not stupid, knock it off. You're not needy." A reach reflexive, thumb's careful pull along a lip, caress stolen in the guise of wiping the soup he'd spilled on Bucky's chin. Firm add, a try for closing argument's door, "You know how I feel."

Wrist caught sudden, pulled to Bucky's mouth; teeth's hungered bite of Steve's flesh, heartbeat bound against lips, tongue dragging wet comfort to the bruise pulled rising dark blood to pale skin. Breath staggered at Steve's gasp, stifled groan loud, a vibration in Bucky's hearing, pulsed against his tongue. Gaze fired intense, words growled to the heat of the red raised mark of his owning, "I know how you feel inside of me. How it feels when you fill me, fuck me. Make me come."

"Buck, stop it." Palm cupping a neck, fingers rough grasp of hair, Steve's words out loud "People can hear you," not matching thoughts internal, wishing they were anywhere but sitting on that train.

"You said you weren't afraid of what they think?" Bucky challenging, "If it isn't me, what is it? The word? Saying it out loud. Afraid I'll use it against you. I'll fall apart. More than the fucking mess I already am?"

"Not you. Not that." Steve's denial cut short. Cyrillic harsh tones, piercing shrill, the cook and a man, barrel-chest, greased hair, skin inked muted blacks and blues, peaking ominous from under a sweat-stained shirt. Phrases tossed spit derisive, meaning understood without knowing a word.

Steve deliberate stare at their audience, daring their judgment, dragging a thumb, slow caress of Bucky's mouth, flesh slipping deep internal, taking the wetness from his tongue. Gaze turned to Bucky, hand wrapping a cheek, buried grip of his hair, needing him closer, voice gritted sincere, "It's just a word. People say things all the time, they mean it, and then things change, people change, they take it back, they forget, they move on. Words don't matter."

"What?" Bucky grabbed Steve's wrist, blurting "So you didn't mean it? Why the hell would you do that, say that?"

Shaking Bucky's head, Steve insisted, "Listen, it's not about what people say. It's about what I do, what we do."

"We do sex, Steve. It's about sex?"

Steve's laugh, barely a breath, "No. It's about taking care of one another. You take care of me. I take care of you."

Bucky needing space, shoulder shrugged, twisting dodge, hand untangling hair from Steve's grip, breaking his hold, "So take care of me? Like what? A dog? A plant? We've been here before, same argument. You taking care of the headcase, that crazy friend hearing voices, counting threes, puking and tremors and hiding from Ross and Stark and..."

Cutting him off, "Not what I said. You aren't listening."

Unrelenting, tremor taking Bucky's voice, "And I don't take care of you, because I can't. I'm the lost one, the chaotic mess of a barely human..."

Attempted redirection, Steve tapping fist to table, palm spread deliberate searching for calm, "Stop putting words in my mouth."

"I'd like to put something else in your mouth. Not what you think."

"Why are you doing this?" A reach to grab Bucky's hand, not quick enough to catch him.

Bucky trying for a whisper, thoughts cringing at the whine, "I need it. I need to hear it."

Steve's answer measured cadence, "If you need that word, that damn specific phrase. I'm not ready."

"Not ready for what? A life with me? 100 years pal, a little late for second-guessing. Or is it the Voice, too much, huh? Me talking to myself, can't figure it out, who the hell am I talking to? You, the Voice, the dead.? Wait, no, not that. It's me, it's sex, I'm not good enough, not ready for me to you know, fuck you?" Voice rising cracked shrill, confusion turning defensive, words not making sense Bucky stumbling, desperate last phrase whispered hoarse, real fear given life, "Not ready to tell me that you love me?"

Sitting back, breath held counting seconds, watching Bucky's pain spilling raw; soul bloodied and bruised, Steve blaming himself. Thoughts racing, heart's want to bury a fist in Bucky's sweater, haul him from the chair, drive back to the wall, body laid heavy, close, consuming. Words internal screaming 'You're wrong about it all, love you, die for you, live for you, defend you, follow you,' truth walled in needing the safety of control.

Jaw flexing tense, gaze steady, mistaken as cold, hiding his heart, holding mind and soul together by a thread, not wanting to fall apart. One thought clinging tenuous; keeping Bucky safe. Words spoken firm, no debate allowed, "Not ready to have this conversation. Not here, not now."

"So you lied. You fucking lied to me," Bucky's fist pounding the table, dishes bounced erratic.

Body jerked forward, Steve snapping, "You said it in Russian."

Head wagged, childish taunt, Bucky's snark, "So. At least I said it. I can't help it if you didn't understand it."

Breath sighed audible, "Buck, come on. That doesn't make any sense."

Bucky leaning in, matching Steve, studied gaze not missing his tell, a truth held back, a story untold, feelings held in check. Bucky knowing Steve's every twitch, calling him out, "Neither does lying."

Steve pouring heart and soul and truth into words sincere and straightforward, "I did not lie." 

"My razdelyayem odni i te zhe grekhi, ty i ya." Sokolov's stare unflinching; defiance lacing a voice rasped raw, "We share the same sins you and I." Cold air and cramped quarters taking its toll. A Widow tucking a blanket pristine even across her lap; freeing loose strands and errant lint, piled obsessive in a ball on the table extended from the cabin's wall.

An arm's length of separation from Natasha's silent study: Pale skin rice-paper thin, wrinkles taking the corner of the old woman's mouth, hinted more beneath a scarf around her neck. Demeanor and dress a testament to her training; clothing utilitarian, muted colors, boots worn, still polished presentable, not a hair out of place. Fastidious, back held straight, features guarding thoughts, feelings buried deep hidden. Lethality disguised in a grandmotherly facade.

Natasha taking Sokolov in, hidden shiver of reflection, demons internal whispering accusations: mind's eye seeing an older version of herself, discomfort settling in the corner of her heart. Hope tight embracing her redemption, atonement for the past, warmth evident around her edges. Kindness noticed as she passed, not invisible to the eyes of those around her.

Refocusing thoughts, one plan taking precedence, making Sokolov talk. Natasha pulling a bag from under the seat, "Our paths never crossed before now. Curious."

Hands folded neat, Mother's answer sighed, "I'm an old woman, frail of mind, brittle of bone. No more than an echo on the winds of time."

"How poetic." Natasha's twitch of an eyebrow, mouth's corner quirking up, tone vague sarcastic, "Is that Pushkin? Akhmatova?"

The Widow's features mirroring her expression, allowing time to settle dramatic, her answer pronounced, breaking the syllables distinct, "So-ko-lov."

Concessionary smiles exchanged.

Two glasses arranged on the table, bottle of vodka presented, raised eyebrow asking the question, not needing a voice, Natasha pouring the shots when the Widow nodded her assent.

Hospitality matched, Sokolov digging a handful of silver wrapped chocolates from the mangled box at her feet, tossing them on the table, reluctance slipping brief across her face.

Tasha's questions seeming casual, "I never heard of you before you kidnapped Barnes. No mention in the Red Room histories. No images, no stories passed down. Why is that?"

Tumblers clinked in salute, both downing the shots, Sokolov's answer rasped with the burn, and a laugh, "You think we get honored? A painting, perhaps? Our names spoken reverent over time?" Hand waved, pointed one to the other, "We are unnamed, forgotten relics of the past."

Second round poured by Sokolov, Natasha settling snug to the corner, clear liquid swirling in her glass, pressing for more, "History. Those that come before. There was always talk, names mentioned in secret, referenced as examples. Yours never came up."

"Do you think they will talk of you Agent Romanova?" Mother downing her second, pouring a third, Natasha waving her decline, "That you'll be remembered by anyone? Your service honored? Not by the Red Room. No honor for a traitor."

"One man's traitor is another man's..."

"Hero? You've been with the Captain too long, selling you bedtime stories of redemption."

Casual reach for the candy, Natasha unwrapping as she spoke, "We did quite a bit of digging to find you, to find Barnes. You're skilled..."

Mother shaking her head, dismissive, "Who my dear?"

Coy smile, Natasha popping the candy in her mouth, "You know who Barnes is. Long hair. Sniper. Metal arm. The man you tortured, brainwashed, experimented on." Breath pulled in continuing, "The one you kidnapped, shocked repeatedly with a stun prod, locked near naked in a cage. Ring a bell?"

Sokolov returning her smile, not nearly as warm, "You mean the soldier with the trigger words, the words I reversed? The one I saved in the silo from my delusional protege? That soldier?"

Tasha answering, "That man."

"Of course I remember him, dear, Soldat. He prefers Soldat."

"For you, perhaps." Pouring another round for them both, Natasha's voice pensive, "No. He wouldn't want you using his name."

Sokolov downing the shot, filling the tumbler again, "What was your point? I've forgotten already."

Natasha nursing the vodka, a pinkie finger dipped in the liquid, words hinting at slurred, "My point is; I think it's a shame how your history was erased. You clearly had a part in creating him." Voice dropped, scooting forward, words spoken passionate, gritted convincing, "You put the words in his head, you trained him, broke him, made him everything he is today. The Fist of Hydra. Glorious Soldat. You still pull his strings, he still looks at you with fear. You left your mark on him. On the Winter Soldier program. It was yours, wasn't it? Your seminal event. Your legacy. No one else's. I'm right, aren't I?"

Leaning back, Natasha's sighed resolve, temple pressed against the window, "And now, you've been forgotten. The Architect gets the glory. The praise. You get a washed up, pathetic Soldat, hearing Voices, taking medications, a horse ridden hard and put up shaking, wet and spent." Glass emptied abrupt, slammed decisive on the table, shaking loose a red curl of hair, "Life is not fair."

Letting time pass, silent. One watching the other, Mother's glass dropped on the table, a slight wobble to her hand, "Yes well, I am a worker for the greater good. Not a creator, a leader, not an Architect of master plans. I lived to serve Hydra, the Red Room. My time is over. I serve Soldat now." Gaze searching the berth before settling on Natasha, a finger tapping hard, her words spit defensive, deeper feelings spilled, "He is not spent. How dare you."

Tasha snapping back, "You made him a weapon."

The Widow countering, "A glorious weapon."

"A thing. He's a person. You used him, abused him."

"Discipline, he needed limits. Discipline."

Natasha's answer more passionate than she expected, "He needed his life back."

Sokolov defending, "A child. He can't make decisions. He's a child. My child."

"You're not his mother. You're his tormentor."

"No." The Widow slamming fist to table, "Discipline. I protect him. He needs me, a handler, someone who understands him. Knows him. How dare you. You have no right to talk about him that way. You know nothing about loyalty. I am loyal to him. You mock him." Sitting back, hand waved dismissive, eyes shifting to follow lights streaming in the distance as the train rumbled onward, "He has a final mission, I will help him. I gave my word. That is what a mother does."

Sokolov repeating, "My razdelyayem odni i te zhe grekhi, ty i ya." Sharp slap of her chest, body jerked forward, accusing pointed finger, "We share the same sins, Natalia Alianova Romanova, you are no better than I am."

Natasha's jaw set firm, palms flat on the table, leaning to match the Widow's posture, Cyrillic words heated, "I know who I am, what I've done. I will spend the rest of my days erasing the blood on my hands. How about you?"

The Widow letting time pass, features shifting angered to passive, words spoken measured, taunting, "You want the name? The Architect? You already have the answer, my dear. You have no loyalty, no sense of the past, or honor. How easily some forget who made them." Reaching for the bottle, Sokolov steadying the glass mangled hand, efforts ragged, missing the tumbler, bottle slammed to the table, "We are cut from the same cloth Agent Romanova. Drunk or sober. We are the same. There is no redemption to be had; not for me, not for you, not for him, Soldat. There is only revenge." 

"Is this thing recording?" Sam annoyed, tapping a nail on a screen above his head, "Hello, hello?" Images flashing erratic, a view of himself, jumping to static, his face reappearing when he jiggled the cords. Settling into the pilot's seat, tight grip of the armrests, a check of his image on the screen; gaze switching to stare direct into the camera's lens, launching with all the pissed off energy he could channel, "Barnes. You're an asshole."

Seconds passing dramatic effect, Sam sitting back, tension dissipated by a hair, "Needed to get that off my chest."

Fistful of maps waved aggressive, unreadable on the screen, his rant starting low building to a boisterous crescendo, "Hours of research, calculations, Internet searches, satellites tapped, I've breached at least five rules of engagement and stolen six episodes of some kids game show in Mongolian. I'm flying serpentine patterns twenty feet above the ground, I damn near took out a barn, two onion domes and the steeple on an Orthodox Church. All because you won't tell us this guys name."

Maps tossed decisive in the air, Sam grappling with a box at his feet, "Damn you, Barnes. Look at this. Look. At. This." Sharp jerk of a cereal box, held close to his face, better view for the camera, the bottom a murky mess of soggy cardboard, "Look at this, you know where I found it? Sure, you do. You put it there." Prolonged pause demonstrating the object of concern, "In the cooler. With the ice, which melted two weeks ago." Pointed finger poking the box enough to break through the flimsy eroding cardboard, his rant continued, "Cereal does not go in the cooler, Barnes. Food Rules 101."

Sam tossing the box over his shoulder, it falling apart midair, wet clumps falling scattered on his jacket, reminiscent of bird droppings, trailing deposits of sticky wetness across the grated floor. "Great. Just great. You are cleaning that up," finger wagged parental, head shaken, not humorous laugh, "No sirree, I am not doing it. You had damn well better survive this mission and get your ass on this jet for cleanup duty."

Sam jumping from the seat, tirade on-going over his shoulder, every bin opened, seats up-ended, storage flung wide, an on-camera demonstration, "Nothing, not one scrap of food, not one granola bar, not even a Cheese-It. Not a single juice box." Striding back to the camera, face engulfing the screen, "Do you know who's turn it was to stock the jet? Barnes, answer me. Damn it. I don't care if you're on a train, a plane, a boat, answer me. YOU. You were supposed to stock the food supplies. Nothing. No. Things. Just because you're a picky eater, doesn't mean the rest of us should starve."

Evidence of his search tossed indiscriminate onto the floor, proof indisputable of Bucky's transgressions, piled in a funeral pyre fashion. Sam searching in vain for a lighter, put aside for a cooler head and an Instant Message tattle-tale sent to Steve. Self-dialogue underscoring, "Barnes, you are trouble even when you're a thousand miles away."

Sam's food quest ending sprawled belly up on the floor. All energy spent, maps scattered surrounding, random thoughts that starvation was taking its toll. Vision faltering dark and wavy. Lying arms spread wide, staring at white cards taped on the walls. Bucky's numbered clues, first one agreed, a postal code, the others more of a mystery. The numbers plastered in black sharpie on pages taped to every surface. Sam's gaze wandering the cabin, falling indiscriminate on the cards, one standing out from all others catching his attention. "What the hell?" Head turned left, then right, then back, rubbing eyes dry and tired from a flight long and alone. "Cap. You are not going to believe this." Staggering rise, grabbing the card directly overhead, turning the numbers upside down, muttered soft then louder, final yell "They aren't numbers. Rogers, not numbers, they're letters. It's a damn place. They're letters."

Sam rushing to the camera, plastering the card to the lens, blurring the word, a final curse of Bucky's name, "Damn it, Barnes, didn't they teach you cursive in school?" 

_"You're a fool. Can't you see it? Look at him. Blue deep, eyes you've seen before, not him, not this one. The other one, Mother's handler, Mother's surrogate. Kind words, gentle touch, putty in his hands, a pawn, a toy, games played, Soldat. Using you. He said it, that word, that stupid word, whispered hot, dark, desperate. Your lost, pathetic screams, your Captain's name. Steve, Stevie, Steve. Loser. Look where that got you. He never looked for you."_

Eyes closing slow, head tilted side to side, fighting the Voice's mock, shaking it loose, it's cut run deeper in the shadow of Steve's reticence. Bucky sitting still, willing tremors quiet, not working as they claimed muscle and bone. Fleeting thought for the meds, counting hours, sure of the doses, worry the stress of their argument was taking its toll. Steve's name hovering in a mind caught rapt by the Voice.

Muddied tone sounding familiar, Steve's worry coming clear, "You okay? Buck, look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me, pal."

Bucky breathing deep, gaze slow rise, focus clearing, knees jigged anxious, fingers grip table's edge, food half eaten, vision settling on a chest, familiar broad shoulders, face recognizable, furrowed brow. That look, known forever, dismissing the Voice, sun burning away night's foreboding mists. Nervous smile, jittery nod, Bucky muttered, "I'm okay. Just tired, dizzy, not hungry anymore." Three seconds counted to whisper nearly inaudible, "Trying not to listen."

Silence filling the space between, Steve watching Bucky. Gaze meeting his own, flickered distraction, eyes a window to his thoughts. Demons haunting dreams, a Voice's taunting litany not easily hidden as much as Bucky tried, Steve seeing through the veil, his defense, what Hydra left in their wake breaking two hearts.

Skin flushing red, eyes sting unexpected, path coming clear, needing his skin, pulled near, bodies pressed, breath mingled; seeing him slip away. Steve pushed from his chair, a reach sure, direct, open grabbing Bucky's sweater dragged to his feet, chest to chest, breath's warm comfort against his mouth. His kiss held suspended, watching Bucky's confusion stumble to shock, fall to relief.

Dining car emptying, train's staff tending silent to their chores; drunk couples in the corner, final drops of vodka spilled on the table, bottle rocked on its side by the trains incessant sway. Outside world slipping dark, falling away, disappearing from their awareness.

Hand possessing Bucky's neck, hair entangled, waist encircled, fingers digging for flesh, hips pulled intimate, Steve laying claim. Hesitant breath, uncertain not doubting, words spoken quiet halting, "I want to tell you. I need to. You deserve the truth."

Bunching Steve's collar, tracing bone, caress of delicate skin, Bucky needing heart's pulse beneath his fingertips, "I know the truth. I see it in your eyes, your face. I see that look, gone. Body's here, heart's somewhere else. Not with me."

Steve jerking Bucky closer, fingers slip beneath pants, taking skin, shaking denial, "No. You're wrong. That's not it. I'm here with you. Is that what you think? Somewhere - someone else?"

Smile pensive, brief chase across Bucky's lips, "I was there. Remember?"

Answer shot back, "I remember, all of it. You. Her. The fall." Steve's voice trailing to a whisper.

Mouth pressed to an ear, Bucky's murmur without judgment, statement of fact without malice, "You loved her, I saw it then, I see it now. Not gone."

"No. No." Forehead pressed to Bucky's temple, rolling denial supporting words gritted low, "I thought I felt it once before. Seemed like it, back then. With her. You were gone, I - was lost. I lost you. What I remember wasn't like this, us together. What we couldn't have then. Too stupid to even see it." Choked air catching, grabbing the sob, wrestled back into his throat, chest tightened with effort. Holding back from precipice edge.

"Lubov moya," Bucky's mouth gentle, measured brush of skin; heated cheek to lips to cheek, "I understand. Moy lyubimyy medved' so strong and lost. So brave, afraid to be alone."

Slipping closer to the truth, Steve letting go, "It was always you. Always been you. I was an idiot. I couldn't see it. I do now, I know now." Words not enough, climbing into Bucky's skin, thighs braced, light in his grip, lifting him up, feet leaving the floor, back hard pressed to the wall, air grunted from lungs, head braced held protective. Holding suspended with his weight. Steve searching for a kiss, telling his truth, using muscle, sinew, and sweat to give Bucky his answer.

Turning inches' fraction, enough for a message clear, Bucky not taking Steve's mouth, his tongue, lips parted with want, not ready, still needing Steve's confession. Sidelong look, eyes half-lidded, telling how close, how much he wanted that kiss, body weight taking breath, hands touch intimate needed.

Reassurance needed more. Head laid back to the wall, wriggling free, toes taking his weight, forcing barely a space, all Steve's hold would allow. Bucky's murmured confession, "I heard you in our bed when you thought I was asleep. You whispered it so quiet. I thought I was dreaming, not real, not you. Not me." Metal thumb raking beard, lip pulled teasing, "Then you shouted in my ear; you didn't think I'd hear it, the wind, the train, me running, pounding heart trying to get to you. Why not now? Look me in the eye and say it."

No other choice, truth demanded and deserved, Steve, saying what he never wanted to admit, "I'm afraid. I'll fall apart. If I say it out loud, here, now, doing this, your mission. Your life at risk. I'll fail you. I can't do that. Can't fail you."

Head tilted confused, Bucky countering, "Heading into a suicide mission, seems like a good time to me."

Steve's ask bordering desperate, "We're lovers, aren't we? Can't that be enough, for now, this minute, here on a train crossing fucking frozen Siberia? On our way to what? Some crazed Architect who's gonna feed me to his dogs?"

"And me. Chop you up," Two fingers close, demonstrated size, "Little pieces. Fed to me raw."

"Jesus, Buck." Steve's hand covering fingers, mouth pressed tender to a pulse.

Bucky's hinted smirk, "Well, that would be my point. Now better than never." Features slipping serious, "Lovers, always. Every day, minute, second. Forever. Say it." Cheek teasing cheek, tongue's graze of lashes, soft press lips to temple, mouth's promise and reminder, eyes closed, murmur's beg, "Say it."

Steve shaking his head, relenting, "Fine, okay. You win. Can I start here, with this?" Breath pulled deep, chest pressing chest, stealing Bucky's air, nuzzling head to neck, mouth to ear, deliberate sounded phrase, awkward, heartfelt, voice cracking, feeling's dared escape, "Ty moya malen'kaya repa."

Confession hanging expectant, Bucky looking confused, one word muttered surprised, "What?"

Steve sighing, "Look, I know my accent's not great."

A smile half-formed, a murmured, "Say it again."

"No really I get it, my accent's bad." Steve protesting, "The phone was on mute. I'm guessing."

Bucky wrapping an arm around Steve's neck, a kiss dropped tender to cheek, whispering, "I want to hear it again."

Nodding agreement, tight held in arms he never wanted to leave, Steve sounding out his declaration, "Sure, sure. Ty moya malen'kaya repa."

A laugh sputtering, nearly messy, Bucky dragging his tongue wet across an ear.

"You're laughing at me." Steve grasping hips, fake struggle to push apart.

"I'm going to slash Romanova's tires for teaching you that."

Steve defending, "Tasha didn't have anything to do with this. You thought I was ignoring you when I was on the phone. No, I was not. If you can say it in Russian, so can I."

Wriggled fit, Bucky wrapping Steve's body, needing his heat, breath to mouth, hips pressured intimate, low growled, "Say it again."

Steve more than willing to say it a thousand times, wrapped in Bucky's possession, "Ty moya malen'kaya repa."

Smiled warmth, a laugh gentle, forehead rubbed to Steve's, "Nice, Steve, perfect. Good, great. I can die a happy man." Mouth flirting at first, tongue stealing taste of lips, meeting Steve's; tenuous touch, Bucky pulling back gaze studying Steve's face telling sincere, eyes faint glisten maybe a tear. Sudden lunge for the kiss, hard pressed, deep push taking Steve's mouth, whine muffled close, tongue licking desperate. Hips pushed forward, body's matching needs, Bucky's leg wrapping a hip, tugged forward, staggering steps, breaths gasped rhythmic.

Steve breaking the kiss, mouth still pressed to Bucky's lips, "We need someplace private. Is there an inch of space on this train like that?"

Bucky's answer hesitant, "You won't like it."

Steve's focus only now, "Try me." 

A visitor's first thought: Amusing.

The lobby an Italian Renaissance replication, glazed marble columns, glass pane ceiling, soft blue back-lit ambient. Décor meant to impress, leaving him appreciative of the effort if not the style; tastes trending more to the modern.

Attention drawn to a sound rhythmic approaching; stiletto heels clicking echos through the cavernous space. A woman, short-cropped blonde hair, polite smile welcoming, not cold or warm, noncommittal lukewarm in his assessment, fitting her role as his guide. Acknowledging nods exchanged, red-nailed finger pointing, sweeping gesture towards a staircase, falling in behind her measured pace; his steps conscious silent across grey-white marbled floors.

Graceful curving upward stairs, patrons slow milling past carpets hung prominent on the walls. Eighteenth-Century authentic, well preserved an observation; frayed repair top left corner, subpar for the piece, filed away as trivia to contemplate at a later date.

Top of the stairs, confident stride, perfect pace, surveillance and urgency balanced, step held brief at the sight of the Rotunda. Half smile offered for the woman's studying gaze, expecting his reaction; two-fingered fleeting gesture reserved yet eloquent his intent. Paying obligatory homage to the circular dining balcony; a sea of bright gold adornments, cuddling cherubs overlooking tables and chairs intricate carved, gilded leaves encircling columns, walls covered in silk cloth. Sky blue painted ceiling, billowing clouds discreetly added. His eye drawn more appalled than curious to the chandelier glimmering overhead. Cascading crystals reflecting lights, clear white, to pink to blue. Coy pointing to the centerpiece, chef's kiss in faux appreciation, eliciting a broader smile of satisfaction from his guide.

Footfalls sounding loud then soft, traveling the halls, parquet floors, plush carpets, marble to wood to plush again. Color schemes garish and ornate, changing space to space. A memory flashing humorous, white Christmas tree in their living room, kaleidoscope lights, changing circular endless, a child's fascination adding colors to its magical projection, slowing it down, speeding it up, a sputtering smoking death in the end. A laugh escaping disguised as clearing his throat, soured by the echo of a father's disdain, words heard still "Careless, irresponsible, it isn't a toy."

Musings funny and painful abandoned for his final destination; dark carved wooden entrance, vivid contrast with the ornate; dizzying colors flowing one hue to the next, the over-sized mahogany dissonant placed. The woman's pause, single rapped knuckle to the wood, head tilted attentive, bated breath held collective. Her waiting the cue, his doubting his plan, fleeting thought, access a window's escape distracted with the click of a door handle's opening.

Rush of air, tinted aromatic, sandalwood? Or cedar? No, wait, slight nod at recognition, bay rum wafting faint as he crossed into the dim-lit space. Chairs fashioned ornate, weighted leather, stuffed and stitched, oiled repeated over time. Old money air oozing from every nook, cranny, and pore. Walls of carved panels gilt bronze, ancient wood floors high glossed, keeping their secrets, stains hidden by time and purposeful care pried open in his vision, enhanced and recorded by the glasses he wore.

Thoughts racing coherent, ticking observations, playing the part anxious meeting tapping his watch, logging the data. Countering facts with rising disdain; patriarchy, bourgeoisie, words colliding in his mind. Bile swallowed hard seeing his reflection staring back, heavy framed mirror, glass tainted over time still able to tell the truth. His past not that far removed from the man he came to see first hand in the flesh. Needing to know.

Dark dressed men strategic placed, guarded watch of his progress into the room. The woman's raised hand halting his steps, safe distance from an isolated chair. Soft daylight streaming across white-hair smoothed skin unnatural, jawline set rigid, remote familiar. The man seated an echo of a picture found within Hydra's files, its match tucked hidden in a chest. Memory dragging the images to mind, faded with time and dust and the press of trinkets locked discreet within a father's belongings. The man still mildly recognizable. More a demeanor than for features or dress. Calculating, a threat wrapped disarming in a body shriveled thin, black ink on fingers incongruous with jewelry glinting stones real not fake, gold-heavy laid at cuff, and tie and lapel. Eyes telling all, coldness deep-seated, spark of interest deceiving, anyone with a glimmer of sense could tell, not a man to trust with your work, your secrets, your family.

The woman stepping forward, graceful gesture towards the man, throat cleared, English well-formed barely an accent, "We understand we have old acquaintances, but we've never met directly. May I introduce you to Mr. Ivan Petrovitch, entrepreneur, philanthropist, and Architect of this magnificent establishment."

Hard not to stare; seated man straight-backed, feet square on the floor; offering a single raised finger, gold ring glinting in the sun, slightest of nods, more an afterthought than clear greeting.

Pressured hold felt on an elbow, pulling his attention, the woman pointing to a chair, voice a thick whisper, "Your father was a trusted friend and collaborator. We are quite pleased to meet you, Mr. Stark. Please do take a seat, Mr. Petrovitch is always open to renewing friendships."

Tony's nod gracious, smile a semblance of warm; mind racing, gut twisted anticipation, opening the box, peering in, history staring at him unabashed. 

AUTHOR NOTES:

Ty moya malen'kaya repa. You're my little turnip.

Moy lyubimyy medved' My beloved bear.


	23. Chapter 23 The Fall

In the settling quiet of night, sleep overtaking most of the world surrounding, murmured whispers intermittent, soft lilt of a Russian lullaby distant soothing a child into dreams. Natasha letting shoulders slack, head cradled by a cold glass pillow, legs drawn up on the bench, utilitarian blanket as a cover hailing childhood sparseness. Embracing that time when the past crawls back to the surface, nights endless without sleep or dreams, the needs of a life lived in the light shoved aside by history's ghosts.

Her gaze slipping over the Widow curled opposite, awkward tucked to the corner of the bench. A mirrored image of herself, feet drawn up a blanket wrapped snug around her form, sprinkled random with the crinkled silver foils of the chocolate they had shared. Natasha dropping feet to floor not wanting to see herself in the old woman, not even in the curl of a restless sleep.

Sokolov's chest rise and fall gentle, appearing asleep, muscles twitched erratic, a ruse easily taught and used for the uneducated eye. Natasha too seasoned, too wary to fall for the game. Not trusting her counterpart, not words or oaths or even her seeming drunken state.

Taunts and accusations replaying, their maneuvers dredging memories long-buried, heart twinging mixed feelings; schoolgirl adoration tainted dark with guilt and shame. Trust given youthful innocent in the beginning, a young girl taking a pasty-white hand offered as if nurturing, crisp white of shirt's cuff, faint aroma distinct bay rum, a crown permanent inked to the finger toying playful with her palm.

No reason not to believe parents reassurance smiles given all around; no tears shed at their goodbyes. Love and faith insidious killed by the Red Room's embrace; hope replaced with icy veins when the truth of her betrayal rose fleeting to the surface of awareness.

Natasha allowing dark-edged images to float rancorous through her mind, a life held rigid in the routine of her training freed brief and incongruous when the crisp white shirt came to visit. Moments stolen in a suite, her Madame hovering near, the man's statements rumbled coarse affection, "Are you well? Are you a star? Have you killed a man today?"

Her answer obedient without elaboration, "Da. Da. Nyet."

Natasha's final day, gun trained steady in too young of a hand, aim precise. Cold-framed seeds of doubt buried deep beneath her emptied expression staring at a hooded figure bound seated across the room.

Standing apart, crisp shirt offsetting the dark inked tattoo, the man deferentially treated, an ominous observer to the testing of her mettle. Cold eyes glinting pride, lips quirk of a near smile, when her target fell dead-weight to the floor, red pooled evidence of her completion.

A single silver foil-wrapped candy palmed discreet in her hand as her benefactor passed her by, the crown tattoo finger tickling her palm. His gaze never veering in her direction, parting words spoken impassive to the air beyond her shoulder, "Your mother is proud of you today."

Natalia Alianovna Romanova never saw the man again.

Fatigue's wash rising quick, forcing eyes closed, gritted dry. The burn of recognition starting as an ache in Natasha's belly, spreading a foul-taste into her throat; hard swallowed at Sokolov's snorted laugh. Eyes startling open to stare at the old Widow, sitting upright, hands folded prim, sinew and fiber implying she knew her every thought. Her voice a hissed mock, "Finally, you remember your maker."

Natasha rising abrupt, urgent demand across the comm, "Steve? Where are you? Get back here. We need to talk. I know who he is. The Architect. I know his name."

"Who saves us if I fall?" Not a thought spoken aloud, or dared to float unencumbered to the front of Steve's mind. More a whisper, feathered touch of half-formed words ghosted caress of consciousness. "You and I, blood bound friends chasing dreams, hopes practical or ethereal nothing seen impossible; love felt indisputable, speaking the word out loud stripping its power, our bond never needing more than a lingering gaze, a finger's bare pressure to skin." Fatigue simmering below placid appearance, Steve letting a mind task-driven tight focused to wander aimlessly poetic.

Thoughts ambling distracted missing the people scattered left and right old and young, fresh-faced and the weary; sleep taking most, some lost internal, gaze caught by the darkness beyond the windows; a random soul glancing curious at their passing.

Metal hand wrapped possessive around Steve's wrist not allowing his feet to stumble, tugging forward step by step, insistence telling of love not said so others could hear, the air itself not worthy of what both knew burned to their souls. Bucky's thumb slipping affectionate to the back of a hand, his touch pulling Steve forward, kept upright inch upon inch navigating an aisle made more claustrophobic by the spill of people, towels hanging random clotheslines, Brooklyn reminiscent; baggage dropped overflowing on the floor.

Steve's awareness captured, his gaze locked on Bucky a fall of dark hair, hooded jacket; a backpack frayed cherished, bringing a smile for a memory, bickering over buying a new one, shot down by a final muttered phrase clutching treasure tight, "It's mine. I'll keep it."

Letting himself be led, metal touch spreading warmth along Steve's nerves wound tight, defense against a fall of tears and sweat and a body stumbling to kneel submissive to its fatigue. Rumbled wheels covering miles of steel track, passenger's voices soft mingled, muted beat of music sounding distant, undercurrent noise overwhelmed by his yearning for their home, skin scarred white, and declarations held back.

Their comms turned off, discretion for their dining car argument, Steve caught up by the body familiar leading. Mind imagining tendon's flex beneath Bucky's clothes, shoulder's muscled tension, hip's sway and give, reminders of their bed, sinew's twitch at his touch. Logic's struggle to ignore images free-floating taking his attention, pale-skinned dips and curves of a back, sweat slipping errant along thighs tremored and compliant under his hand, shaken by his owning.

Steve fighting the want, a thought weak voiced to resist Bucky's pull, find Natasha, focus on the mission. Body and heart winning out, needing roles reversed hours or minutes falling under Bucky's protection, find solace in his arms; even in a crowded train Moscow-bound.

Bucky tugging him closer to fit chest wrapping a back, teasing body's memory reminder of their sex and nights holding comfort from dark dreams. Steps tripping mingled Steve's ask murmured against a neck, hair pressed tumultuous to his face, scent stirring heat in belly and below, "Tell me something." The question nearly drowned by evening's noise his words needing more than the whisper he wanted.

Bucky's ask playful, "Stevie. Is this a new day?" Half-turned in a tease, not stopping their weave through obstacles in the aisle. "You know, question of the day? Or is this a routine question like, did I steal your socks. Cuz if it's about the socks," halted abrupt Steve colliding, grateful for stolen seconds of closeness haunting. Bucky's shift weighted lean teasing the promise of bodies lying close, "The answer is yes. I did steal them." Breath's warmth to a cheek, "One from each pair so you, the former Captain America will have to wear mismatching socks," mouth brushing mouth, his murmur rattling Steve's resolve, "Don't get hit by a bus or the world will know. News at 11."

Eyes glinting nearly shy, half-hidden by hair falling unruly, Bucky's hard tug moving them towards his promise of seclusion, hope for time spent intimate, away from the world. Steve calling back countless schoolboy schemes; drag on his arm, following that look, the smirk a glimmer of the past. Bucky real under palm's claim of a hip, Steve tucking fingers to a back pocket owning; needing respite minutes even seconds, relent to his want, find refuge in Bucky's owning him body and soul.

Steve gathering focus, "Not about socks. About now and before." Metal fingers dug to flesh, shooting ache across muscle and bone, pain worth the connection, drag on his wrist willing follow, thoughts calculated giving in to a desire to be held.

Bucky's glance back a search for reassurance, admission a fake serious, "Alright truth it is." Steps halted short, letting Steve bump awkward again. "I stole your sweater." Full facing to settle a breath away, his closeness shaking nebulous control.

Steve letting a shiver chase unencumbered watching a gray-eyed gaze dart from his eyes to pause provocative on his mouth. Steve craving that look, his touch, a thumb's soft caress of a beard, insistent pulling lips to part, drawing him in. Ignoring eyes prying, passengers sprawled inches near; mouth obedient taking metal fingers, tongue's lick to hard surface pulling a sigh from Bucky's breath.

"Still got it on," rasped quiet, head falling to press light against his chest, Bucky leaving heated words whispered to Steve's neck. Teased slow spoken, tongue stealing skin's taste, "I got it dirty, you'll need to take it off me."

Wrapping tug of Bucky closer, Steve needing to feel palms pressed to hard bone of hips. Neck exposed to offer flesh, his want of teeth taking skin, blood drawn dark needing Bucky's mark, tongue's wet lave to an ear. Hand's search beneath a jacket, fumbling past the knife tucked hidden, needing hips to meet, cock's hardness pressed to cock.

Steve's whisper a shaken insistence, "Ty moya malen'kaya repa. You laughed, I didn't expect you to laugh, what did I say, I got it wrong?" Bodies awkward dance at the mercy of the train's rocking motion, Steve holding Bucky in sync, moving to music called back from memories shared, faint strains circling unseen rhythmic internal.

A smile genuine as Bucky leaned forehead to forehead, arms encircling, slow sway matching firm chest to chest, "Nope." Words teasing breathless against Steve's mouth, "You got it right; it's perfect."

Bucky's caress of his cheek, fingers wrapped owning in hair falling long; forcing eyes half-closed, Steve's want of the kiss held in check by a cough near his elbow. Side glancing at the shirtless man belly rotund cold-staring direct at their embrace, despite the shadowed light of a car settling in for sleep.

'

Steve forging ahead, "Then what you said, medved' I think; another swear, a joke, what's it mean?" Jerking pull of Bucky's hips disguised as a plea; Steve needing his weight, his body's heat, laid full against his own.

Bucky pliant under Steve's hand, body shaken faint, stumbled near, metal arm cradling a neck, mouths a breath away, a smirk slipping vulnerable uncertain. Answer a mutter brushed to beard, "Not a swear," A laugh escaping brief, "It's a joke, nothing. Harmless."

Steve grabbing Bucky's ass, lifting to tight fit hip to hip, ducking to keep eyes connected, "Harmless? A joke? Like asshole, jerk, what?"

Bucky staying quiet, head laid to Steve's chest a comfort endearing and consuming, a moment stolen from the noise and rock and eyes of a train full of strangers.

Steve taking skin beneath the sweater, a shake bordering hard fine line of gentle, fingers white-knuckled on a thigh, forcing Bucky's breath quiet gasp, needing that sound. His hold, arm's strength, gut clenched heat spreading core deep feeding off a body's willing submission, "What does it mean? No games, tell me."

Bucky letting the question sit expectant, gaze lingering on Steve's mouth, hips slow teasing grind, final relenting a murmur, "Moy lyubimyy medved'. It's a joke, a pet name. I promise, no insults."

Steve countering, embrace tightened down, his force pushing steps. Bucky staggering along the aisle, Steve wrapped possessive, both tripping, his strength balancing their weight catching the fall, words gritted playful insistent, "Then no harm in telling me. Is there?"

Breath forced short by Steve's surrounding arms, Bucky's squirm, not a real fight to escape, glancing nervous at skeptical looks drawn to their stumble, "Fine, okay, it fits you. Completely. You win."

"Then tell me what it means." Steve's ask made more insistent with a bite to Bucky's lip, teeth's clench not letting go, pulled until the whine slipped nearly unheard, seen in the flutter of lashes and eyes telling of need. A tongue dragged quick to faint bruise, stealing mouth's taste in the soothing.

"It means," voice hinting rattled, maybe embarrassed, blush of skin masked by dim light. Bucky's words murmured to a chest, heartbeat bounding distinct against a mouth's faint pulsed new swelling, "It means - my bear."

Steve's grip loosening slight, body stillness a tell of being caught off guard at Bucky's admission; expecting a swear, a term sarcastic or rough endearing, not a softer affection, "Bear? Not cussing me out?"

Metal fingers entangled in hair, flat palm to the back of Steve's head, mouth pressed tender to a temple, whisper sincere, "Not a swear."

Warmth spreading belly to chest to flush faint red on Steve's skin, his hold possessive, drawn into Bucky's tease, wishing stares surrounding would fade into the darkness. His ask more a heated flirt than curious, "No, you're screwing with me, aren't you?"

Bucky's laugh soft against Steve's jaw, heat spreading quickfire across skin at teeth taking hold of bone, tongue's drag to his cheek, will and body weakening as mouths flirted close.

Steve grabbing a fistful of hair, needing an inch of space, eyes to meet, denying the kiss both knew would follow, "As much as I like, want, need that, knock it off and tell me what it means."

"I told you, bear, you're a fucking bear," tongue's slip to mouth's faint bruise, a smile toying, a reach to bring breaths close, Bucky's words spoken intimate, syllables dragged carefully long, "Beloved. My beloved bear."

Bodies pressed tight fit, time sitting still watching one another, world slipping past in the darkness beyond the windows. Bucky's sigh breaking the moment, rant quick-paced laced irreverent, "See, not a big deal, not a swear, not the L-word, so don't worry, God forbid. I guess the serum didn't cure you of all your allergies, so tough and strong. So afraid of one damn word..."

Steve catching Bucky's face, needing the kiss, mouths bumped firm nearly a stumble caution and disapproval ignored, stopping abrupt word's litany. Wanting his mouth to tell heart's secret in its taking, bodies tight shared, despite a lilted disapproval hissed intrusive echoed nearby. Heart wanting to pull feet from the floor, lifting his body weightless carried miles beyond count to bring him safe to home and their bed.

Breaking the kiss, foreheads pressed, one question left hanging, Steve torn between letting it go, ask another time another place; the ache settling twisted in his chest needing the answer here and now. A hand brushing hair from Bucky's face, thumb clearing lines fatigued, stubble's prickle to flesh, hesitant voiced still serious, "Answer a question."

Bucky twisting in Steve's arms, cheek nestled under his touch, "No more questions."

Stubborn hold, insistent ask, "Yes, questions, new day, new question, not about socks or underwear or telling me to Fuck off in Russian."

Bucky patting Steve's chest, "I haven't done that, not recently." A pause slightly dramatic, "In the last few days. Hours." Teeth taking an earlobe playful, "Maybe between bites back there in the dining room, just a little."

"Funny." Steve's embrace tightening, forcing Bucky's breath sharp, "That does not qualify. I have a question; I need an answer."

Wriggling free, gaze falling to the crowded car surrounding, hands pressured on Steve's chest, pushing space between them. Bucky's tone changing avoidant, words muttered distracted, "Come on, it's getting late, you wanted privacy, we're running out of time." Stumbling from the hold, dragging Steve reticent with him determined quick weaving along the cluttered aisle.

Steve following, heartbeat quickened, thin sheen of sweat breaking temple and wrist, steps drawn forward, the far end of the car; dark door window blackened, unlike all the others. Thoughts turning ominous, not logical or formed, the moment slipping away, an ask blurted loud, forceful near a demand, "Why a train?"

Bucky stopping short, tension seen in the straightening of shoulders, body stillness frozen steps in the aisle. Pause left hanging interminable before a hurried move forward. His answer abrupt, words rattled running together thrown back over a shoulder, Steve struggling to hear over the rail car's noise. "Scenery. Flatlands, those quaint little cottages, twinkling lights, occasional mountain; and the lake, I forget the name, really probably never knew it. Doesn't matter, it's beautiful. I think. Hard to tell from my viewpoint." A grand wave of his hand to the blackness of night beyond the soft glow of the train's light, "Have you looked out the windows? Very scenic."

"As a matter of fact," Steve rushing to keep up, answer definitive, "Yes. It's dark out. There's nothing to see." Catching Bucky's hood, a question aching for an answer, "Why a train?"

Bucky twisting free from Steve's grip, steps hurried farther along the aisle, his chatter rasped apprehensive, "People, Steve. All the people. So friendly, generous. You had their sausage, right? And the vodka?" Waving a hand erratic towards Steve, his gaze straight ahead, "Wait, wait till you try the Babushka's meat pies. So good. I think, yeah, I know." Raking fingers through hair, voice falling uncertain, mumbling "Good, maybe. I dunno, maybe it was dog meat?"

Steve keeping within a possessive reach of Bucky's elbow, "Yes sausage. No Babushkas. I wouldn't classify disapproving grunts whenever I put my hands on you as friendly." Snagging Bucky's pocket, fingers hooked deep into his jeans, tugging to slow the pace. Chest tightened irrational, thinking he'd disappear if hands weren't on his body, real flesh under his touch, memories stirring heart's grip knotted anxious, afraid he'd fall stolen mystical from out of his hands, before eyes wide awake and following. Steve's demand rising desperate, "Why a train? You had a jet; we have a jet, we're on a God-damned train."

Bucky rushing steps and words, not looking at Steve, "History, vintage shit, they haven't changed those curtains in fifty years. Did you see Lenin back there? And the paintings, where else will you see..."

Steve grabbing Bucky's arms, the spin making feet stumble, his strength carrying bodies awkward tumbled, their fall broken by the far door finally reached. Words gritted close to Bucky's ear, "Knock it off."

Weight laid heavy, holding still Bucky's struggled avoidance; not intimate or soft, Steve needing an answer. The past sitting unaddressed choking his air, dangled on sanity's edge. Last shred of the unspoken holding them apart, shoulders forced to the door, a cheek caressed, voice graveled spilling guarded pain, "You know what I'm asking."

Bucky taking too long to let eyes meet Steve's; biting a lip words held back, letting head fall dull thud to door's window, face hidden in the shadows of the poorly lit entrance. A mutter exhausted, "Why are you doing this? It's over, it happened. Let it go."

Knees shaking weak, a feeling unaccustomed. Steve gentle wrapping Bucky's body, chest laid to chest, cheek finding rest on a metal shoulder, needing hair's softness tangled in fingers, arm's embrace of his back, sloping curve obsessed. Burden's weight taking its toll, demanding his confession. Words wrenched quiet, ached from his gut, spilled from a soul wrestling ages of guilt, "You fell. You fell; I watched you fall. You don't remember, I know it. You slipped between my fingers, I had your hand and lost you. I had one fucking thing to do. What good is this damn serum if I let you go?"

Stillness settling in bodies pressed close, Bucky's answer not in words. Breath steady imperceptible, muscles held a sniper's quiet. Reaction hard to read, hard for Steve to know his thoughts scattered most days now focused indisputable on a confession far too long in the speaking. Fear rising heat spread under Steve's skin, clenching a gut already twisted waiting for what he knew would come, convinced of the answer.

No words of forgiveness or absolution to be given. Only regret, remorse washing over mind and heart, Steve knowing soul-bound inescapable Bucky would turn away, walk away. Leave him alone in the end. Truth's secret deep-seated locked, believing he deserved a life lived empty, endless dark without him if light fell revealing on words held captive from that day; bitter winds cutting, Bucky's scream loud to fading gone.

Slow and long, deliberate rise of Bucky's chest, moving Steve's body, an ear laid taking comfort in breath grown as familiar as his own. The ebb and flow spreading a burn across nerves, a fire in the cold of the steel-encased entrance-way. Bucky's voice tenuous tangled skeptical, rasped in a tone known to Steve, flare of paranoia near breaking the hold he had on his body, "Have you been talking to the Voice in my head? Cuz he says that too. You can't hear him right,?" Grabbing Steve's hips, fingers digging an ache deep muscled to bone, gaze bright shine of trust eroding, "Answer me now, right now."

Steve catching Bucky's face, bringing eyes to meet deliberate, thumb's rake of lines telling worry and distance growing, "I can't hear the voice in your head. Please believe me. I'm not talking to it."

Tremor familiar, uninvited and loathed chasing across muscles, shaking under Steve's touch, Bucky's whisper faint, "Are you sure? Not lying, right?"

Steve holding Bucky tighter, not letting a gaze wander, searched approval from the unseen, "Not lying. I can't hear it. I don't know what it's saying. I can guess."

Seconds passing too long, debate internal, body tension a tell, Bucky's grip final relenting enough for blood to pulse in legs going numb, "Good okay, good." Jerking Steve's hips, tight press against his own, "No talking. No guessing."

Steve lifting Bucky's face, pale light falling on features he needed to see, "Buck, stop. Did you hear what I said?" Regret for times missed, long nights, silence begging his confession. Sins and doubts and fears needing air to breathe, light shed bright revealing, spread ruthless open for Bucky's judgment; forgiveness begged, rejection expected. Time passing now too quick to let it wait any longer, "Buck, listen to me, I let go. I let it happen. The fall."

"The fall? My fall?" Bucky shaking his head, a gesture slow, brow furrowed uncertain, not matching his words, "No. You're wrong, that's not how it happened." Tone distant, maybe cold, Steve not sure, memory's haunting a mind fragmented.

Speaking clear, known fact, the moment seared to Steve's brain and body, permanent embedded in blood and bone, "I let you fall, I had your hand. I let you go."

"No, wrong. Not what happened." Bucky struggling under Steve's weight, fighting his hold, a tremor run uncontrolled, jerking knee to a thigh, hair pulled inadvertent still tangled in fingers owning. Insistent words fierce spoken rasped conviction, eyes locked defiant with Steve's, "You're wrong. You think I don't remember. I live it in my dreams. You're there, in my dreams. In our bed. You hear it, feel it; sweat and tears and shaking like some scared fucking child. My ghosts, dead eyes staring. Sure, rightly so, I deserve that." A sob shivered quiet; a whisper stuttered by tremor next to Steve's ear, "That fall. You getting smaller, farther away every second. That haunts me. The sound, screams and wind and the cold, burning my skin. Takes my dreams, my sleep. Takes you away from me, over and over. I live it, always." A pause, breath stolen, voice stronger in his knowing, "I remember everything. No doubts."

Eyes closing irrational, a wish for mind's eye to turn blind, seconds relived feeling like hours, days, years seeing Bucky fall. Steve's mutter sincere, sounding weak in his hearing, "My fault. I did this to you."

Bucky's broken words appeasing his mind, no malice intended, "Hitting the ground."

Steve's head spinning dizzy, pulse throbbed erratic through a body strong succumbing to guilt carried embedded over years, war and ice and a Century unfamiliar. Tendons and sinew giving way to their history spoken aloud raw, true, and glaring. Bile rising to rake a throat, turn a stomach. Steve's surrender to shame's weight, slipping weak down Bucky's body, knees near cracked to the floor; arms wrapping Bucky's waist, hold possessive, owning, desperate cling keeping him skin close, heart-pounding chest and temple and gut, a word breathed from his soul, "Buck."

His fall rough caught by Bucky, body jolted, held up, breath crushed barely there, hands not letting Steve fall. "Don't," gritted firm, request not strong enough, one word a demand. Fingers entangled abrasive owning, undeniable affection locked in Steve's hair, pulling to force head up, eyes fierce meeting a gaze clouded wet, "I need you. Need you here, now, with me. Don't you give up."

Metal hand raking Steve's back, dragging his weight, feather-light to stand pressed close, skin's heat building, lips brushed to lips. Steve's thoughts scattering, street-fight to train's fall to sex raw consuming; Bucky's whisper against his mouth wrapped consoling in tender, "How long have you thought you let me go, Lubov moya? Forever, it seems."

Bucky's gaze saying what both held guarded silent; feelings named out loud, not yet, not quite. A smile gentle, telling of love borne out in every act, heard in a tease, a phrase of knowing one another soul-deep, "That's you, Stevie, just like you, to think it was all your fault."

A kiss left deliberate, gentle measured, a message undeniable soft pressed to Steve's lips, foreheads meeting light; tension slipping less in a body tight wound by his remorse. Holding Steve's gaze, gray eyes sheened so close, blue flecks visible; breath's warmth on his mouth, Bucky speaking certain, voice steady, tone sure, fact indisputable, "You never had my hand."

Memories shrouded by time and tears and nights spent sleepless, Steve pulling a breath to argue, stopped by a kiss, gentle to firm to tongue forcing lips parted, mouth taken deep owned. Guilt's hold stripped piece by piece from his heart; Bucky claiming his body wrapped possessive by a leg, hands lifting his ass, heat building in bellies pressed tight. Steve's willing give of his mouth, a tongue's lave and dip and taste driving cock's fill. Bucky's kiss laying claim indisputable, to a heart's pulsed beat matching his own.

Steve breaking their kiss, lips still touching not wanting to leave this embrace, his question still keeping thoughts hostage, demanding he ask "Why then? If not about your fall, what happened, not about us then why a fucking train?"

Bucky not releasing leg's grip of Steve's, his hands tight holding flesh, lips pressed adoring to a cheek, "I wouldn't do that to you. I'm sorry you thought, felt..." Taking a cheek, eyes wide pulling Steve's attention, his gaze to connect, to listen to words not shared, not yet, "It's this train; what's here. I'll show you."

Bucky squirming in Steve's hold, let go enough to roll awkward facing the door, weight full laid against his back, face buried in hair, stealing his scent, keeping it close. Gaze following finger's tremulous to a keypad backlit dull blue; his touch hovering cautious, hesitant. Steve's thoughts an accounting methodical of what was to come; numbers lost over time to a memory torn apart repeated. The code changed by a thousand operatives hands. Uncertainty for what laid beyond the door; Vory's rush of men, gut-churned pain stirred by secrets kept at bay by their finding one another; a darkness worse than Mother or Hydra or an Architect with an unfound name.

The tremor shaking Bucky's hand, hovered close to the numbers, Steve taking his wrist, palm laid gentle, finger matching finger, steadying pressure. One number at a time together. Last entry held in check, Bucky turning, cheek brushed to beard, worry crossing features fleeting, words formed in his expression, not spoken aloud. Breath pulled ragged, a turn to enter the final digit.

"Wait." Steve's whisper into hair tucked behind an ear, catching Bucky's cheek, pulling mouths near, a kissed reminder, "We got this, together, okay pal?"

Wordless nod, slightest of smiles, Bucky's eyes changing, soft affection slipping colder, playful turn of his mouth flattened serious. Features growing distant, an old mask emerging, a face seen years before. Last number entered, second's pause interminable answered by a click, a rumbled shake, and the door inched open enough for fingers to tug it wide. Bucky straightened shoulders, shaking off Steve's wrapping hold, body stilling tremors, he pulled the door fully open.

The Voice quiet insidious, weighted words, cutting across hope and fear and the comfort of Steve's engulfing hold; hissed foreboding.

" _Welcome home, our long lost child. Soldat one. The Captain zero."_

Bone china delicate, cobalt bold-colored laced with filigree gold, the samovar placed discreet, low table sitting equidistant between Stark and his objective. Ivan Petrovitch, a man appearing years less than what Tony knew, suspected he had spent in this world. Fit of clothes, Old World nod, modern touches in the cut, the slice of lapel, fold of a collar. The image of a patriarch roots deep-seated in a past spent pursuing endeavors dark varied; living open, a history buried secret in graves unmarked a shadow looming insidious.

Tony methodical taking him in; the fat of middle age given way to a thin-skinned, bone prominent build. Fit appearing still by his posture, back rigid, pale hands folded prim, dark crowned ink on skin not hidden despite its jarring counter to the gold adorning wrists and fingers. Sharp eyes meeting his gaze, lines at corners pulled taut, a wonder about vanity thinking the face looking back had been altered somehow.

Steam rising soft wisps as hot liquid poured into the teacups, Tony allowing a glance from Petrovitch to watch the slimmest of girls moving silent ghosted through the room. Aroma sharp, brain registering tea, thoughts dallying on bolder fare ticking down the list: Double espresso, chai tea, the dry martini winning out. Settling back to chair, legs crossed projecting a comfort he didn't feel; finger to his glasses implying a tic, real-world recording their encounter. Outer calm, casual, thoughts gathering calculated, assessing, sizing up. His gut turning anxious well hidden, wallowing in more questions than answers about the pictures he'd found, tucked hidden in Howard's clandestine files.

Restraint an unfamiliar construct, Stark waiting for a cue, a hint, a word spoken first by his host. Time passing intolerable slow; finger's tap to his glasses; six muscle-bound men, the antiquated bulge of weapons evident under their jackets, three women in the room, his guide in spiked heels, the others dressed in costumes ornate if not a bit musty in their smell. "Renaissance Faire Upstate New York, 2005" running humorous through his mind. "A fine year for mead," the joke he told himself internal waiting for a sign.

A mind working double-quick, not accustomed to yielding the lead, thoughts assessing threats and escape, startled to the moment by a rasped voice speaking English pristine.

"Mister Anthony Stark." Petrovitch's words crisp, tone an unmistakable command for the attention to shift. All eyes expected to fall undeniably on the speaker, "When one views the surface we seem quite similar. Money, influence, a taste for the unattainable, the taboo, there for our taking." A vaguely dismissive wave of his hand. "And yet..."

A pulse skipped erratic, uncertain of the old man's line of thought, Tony settling to appear more comfortable, a smile acknowledging, air confident hiding a twinge of wonder at what came after his "Yet."

Petrovitch's smile slipping to a thin line, "You come into my establishment, short notice. Our worlds are small, circles overlapping, and yet our paths never cross. No offers of collaboration, no homage to our shared past."

Tony's smile as genuine as he felt could be attained given the profound lack of enjoyment being experienced in that specific moment. An apology cavalier, off the cuff, nearly irreverent, "I'm here now." One hand offering a flourished gesture of decisiveness.

Ivan Petrovitch sitting in a stillness that tells of a man not prone to outbursts emotional or physical; a man held in check, his passions simmering deep beneath the outer reserve. Features a masked enigma, not revealing thoughts or plans or how his heart burned for that which he didn't have in his possession. Yet anyway. His gaze studying Stark, a slip to run head to toe, returning to Tony's eyes then drift to a painting across the room.

The Architect's words spoken clean English, meaning intended to cut ragged, "You are not your father, are you?"

Tony keeping hidden the razor-thin line of metaphorical blood inflicted; his smile not wavering, gaze steady, not a finger's twitch revealed. His answer a truth held near and cherished, "No. I am not my father."

Petrovitch shifting to stare direct, not one to dabble in small talk, or games, "What do you want Mister Stark?"

"Answers Mister Petrovitch." Tony matching his succinctness.

The Architect's response quick pragmatic, "And what will I get in return?"

Negotiations moving along rapid pace, no-frills, no dallying trivial. Tony appreciating the directness if not the loss of what he thought would be his upper hand. His reach for the item inside suit's pocket flared mildly dramatic. The package pulled slow, deliberate, unwrapped with aplomb from its soft moleskin cover. Held up for Petrovitch to view, turned with a theatrical front to back, side to side performance. Tony satisfied that he'd gained the old man's attention, reveled in seeing his eyes widened brighter for seconds before slipping cold.

Stark laid the item on the table. Dark worn red leather, black star prominent centered, settled near enough for Ivan Petrovitch to see and know and think about its meaning. Close enough calculated, still near enough to snag should negotiations travel South.


	24. Chapter 24 The Cell

"They're fucking aren't they?" Gieta Sokolov stating a fact resigned, disguised as a question, no expectation of an answer.

The Widow's mumble unrestrained not fitting her training. A life lived ordered precise, fulfilling her duties, submission not needing a brain erased of home and past and love. A soul subverted by words spoken insidious, warping a mind's fragile balance, weighing options poor to worse. Her younger self, ages past, not having wide options, steps falling practical on a path clear laid if not a child's first choice.

Hope and love and needs wrapped precious imagined; silk cloth, locked box, key buried in a place only privy to her knowledge, deep within a psyche warped cruel. Wants secreted away in a soul not yet lost, a heart still beating for a life beyond her service. Dreams languishing ignored over years, subverted, beaten down by a life indentured; choices made times over until having a choice became forgotten.

Mother's glimpse of a future, lost dreams embrace, faint light, barely-there; grasped desperate rekindled when the Soldier reappeared in her cell. Odds thin, fading black, last second before a mind slipped muddled across the edges of her grief.

The train ride affording time for thoughts turned inward, Sokolov stirring events with wants, slights perceived with real, delusions woven intricate with truth. An ember sparked minuscule in a chest long cold, Sokolov's hope reignited that day; Bucky entering her world, awash in green and snow and a mat laid sparse. The Soldier's dragged steps reluctant, still there; eyes wary, still brazen enough to match her gaze; body near, touch possible not cringed or held distant across a threshold. Her clinging irrational to a fact seen imperfect; Bucky choosing, free-will, seeking her out, not empty of his past, his love for another not wiped aside with shocks and guttural screams. Her Soldat coming home.

That morning in her prison bringing hope; Mother's hand reaching out, brush to a chest, an arm, commanding, demeaning, known expected between a handler and her charge. A heart wanting more, intimate need hidden. Dared to escape mind's imagined silken restraint to flutter delicate into a light dim, ember's glow of feelings unrequited. Gentler touch held in secret longing.

Sokolov's memory conjuring a night months earlier, Bucky in a cell concrete cold, her stun prod stealing his consciousness. A hand laid clandestine to a chest nearly bare, a pulse thrilling erratic imagined for her, their past. A reward for her protection over the years; a heart beating for Mother.

Musings existential, uncharacteristic, flirting chaotic with an old woman's sanity. Dissipating barely there, thin smoke scurried nonexistent on the breeze with the sharp stab of fingers dug forceful to her flesh. Last image to slip unattainable, gray eyes watching her devout; only to stray beyond her gaze, distant singular focus on a man, a friend, a lover, his Captain.

Sokolov's body jerked forward, breaking the dream, rattling mind's comfort in hopes never fated to exist, leaving a gut filled resentment bitter cold. An ache twisting dark roots deeper, defensive growl, "Soldat is a fool. We should have castrated him years ago."

Natasha's thumb buried deeper into flesh, pinpoint precise; trigger the burn spreading fired down nerves, encouraging steps reluctant. The Widow's low hiss, faint twitch her acknowledgment, retribution understood if not accepted. Natasha's answer flirting at the edge of her tongue; restraint urging caution, irritation winning out, words murmured near Sokolov's ear, "You seem preoccupied with his sex life. Why is that?"

A tone heard cutting deeper than expected, Sokolov stopping abrupt, maimed hand quick wrapping Natasha's wrist, gnarled fingers surprising strength, challenging her hold. Close quarters allowing a view too near, Red Room reminiscent, anger brimming beneath dark eyes telling a story guarded. Confrontation rapid escalating, the grapple sharp, jerked, staggered steps circled tight bound in a space too small, rattling both.

Bodies trained for ages, tensed match, the Widow's twist of Natasha's wrist shooting pain at breaking point's edge. A fist lodged abrupt to a spot tender beneath a sternum, debilitating blow paused a fraction. Blue glow of a stun discreet buried against ribs; Natasha staying concessionary. Mother poised, quick deceptive for age and frail appearance; balanced feet and weight. Their grappling jostled by train's movement, a fight appearing deceptive like a dance steadying.

Sokolov's face close, lines drawn visible despite shadowed light, words spewed menacing low, "What he does is my business. He belongs to me. Not the Captain, not you. Certainly not to himself. He is mine, my life's work. He will do what I say. Go where I say. He will kill who I say. And - he will fuck who I say he can." An answer blurted hard, rage's spittle dangled revealing on a lip thin-white. A truth not meant to be given life beyond her head; not here, not shared with an underling, a Widow traitor to their calling. Emotions chasing across features snapped anger morphing brief vulnerable. Shaken by the slip, the Widow letting a mask reserved claim cheek and brow and eye's crease. Not quick enough to hide from Natasha's gaze.

"This isn't the time or place for this. Do you agree?" Natasha speaking near, the Widow not disagreeing in words or expression. Gaze shifting from Sokolov's eyes to crippled fingers wrapping her wrist; back again. A telling stare, message clear.

The Widow not missing the look, warning read. Churning disdain expressed from pore and eyes and muscle. Furrowed brow smoothing, a mouth's tight line relaxed. Sokolov hearing an echo of her voice, admission's tone and depth not meant to be revealed. Features setting back into a stillness blank. Fingers grip slow-release, jacket straightened pristine, wisp of hair tucked neat, hand deformed hidden in a pocket. Time spent extravagant for her, for a Widow from her time and calling. A heart's secret spilled inadvertent.

One Widow watching another, close study sized equal. Natasha holding remarks in check, grip firm on a shoulder redirecting, their pace picking up through the car, heading for the next and next. Worry tickling neck's hair to rise at revelations, heard clear, reading tics and tone and the grief of feelings unrequited.

Natasha's mutter covered by train's noise and space, arm extended forcing Sokolov ahead, not wanting her to hear, "Rogers, we really need to talk." A sigh groused quiet, "And Barnes. As much as I want to have your back; take this with a grain of salt. Your plan? You're out of your mind."

" _ _You used to have balls, Soldier."__ _A hiss weaving tight sinister through ringing pitched sharp and constant in Bucky's hearing._

Vision's struggle, darkness looming, expected threats rough tangled with hash memories; conjured by an odor musty wet, iced air's caress from a space stripped bare. Scenes playing out in mind's eye vivid real, yielding to the cold hard fact lying beyond the doorway. The train car seeming empty.

Bucky's mutter irritated low, "I have balls. Don't you worry about that."

" _ _Sure. You ought to blow an artery in your brain any second now, the way your heart's pounding into your eyeballs. But sure, you got balls."__

"Yeah, yeah, let me worry about my heart." Breath pulled deep, settling pulse by a fraction. A concessionary thought, "Voice one; Barnes zero."

" _ _We're talking about your balls."__

Blurted louder than he wanted, "Jeezus, enough. I got this - and my balls."

Steve's beard brushing an ear, words breaking the Voice's hold, "Buck, as fascinating and appealing as this one-sided conversation is; why are we talking about your balls?"

Heart's pound rumbled in Bucky's chest; temples pulsed erratic, breaking sweat hot to chill in frigid air. The throb filling ears, choking breath. Memory flashing remnants of the Soldier, apprehension wiped away; palms dry, hand steady, nothing like now. Throat burned, stomach rolling, own voice mocking nerves fired raw.

Steve's hand wrapping his hip, finger's press to bone, ghosted sense of a body intimate close behind settling resolve. Steady pressure, words unspoken, his presence felt, sensed, known unquestioning as metal fingers shoved the door aside.

" _ _You're pathetic. Cold sweat. Needing a hand on your body."__

Bucky's breath pulled sharp, cold air biting a throat, a sting to lungs caught unsuspecting, what lay beyond the threshold, not a picture remembered. Dim light falling in a swatch across a floor distinct, hard wooden planks, gnarled uneven over time. The car seeming abandoned, plunged in the darkness of bulbs gone dead. Gaze straining even enhanced to see within the blackness beyond light spilling from the entrance. Movement catching his eye, heart a fraction skipped, the rush settled quick in realization, watching shadows at his feet. Long hair stirred in faint breeze, a figure close over a shoulder, shape known intimate; comfort quieting tremor, heart's throb slowed, not alone, Steve hovering protective.

" _What did_ _ _you expect? Old friends? Your Handler-Captain? Revenge?"__

Legs weighted heavy to floor, mind telling move, take the step, start the search. Muscles twitch, hard to tell if a tremor uncontrolled or nerves moving a body-conscious. One boot slipped noisy across metal grate. Cringe internal for the sound, step not taken, held anxious waiting. Metal hand's fumble to find solace covering Steve's grip.

" _ _I reiterate, pathetic. What are you so afraid of? A net dropped clinging? You've sliced your way out before. Stun prod, gun, darts? You've calculated steps, time to target, time it takes to bring you to your knees. Or is it the electric burn ripping through flesh and nerves and brain? Mother conditioned you well..."__

"Shut up. Stop talking, stop," A body's twitched response gritted internal, escaping aloud.

"Buck?" Steve's whisper a startle, rasped against hair falling over an ear, "Let it go. I'm right here."

Familiar voice intruding over shoulder, Bucky's shrug a subtle answer. Acknowledging unclear or nudging Steve away.

" _ _What did you think you'd find here? Laughter? Vodka passed taunting? Dice clicked against your wall? Faceless men stealing sleep and dreams; and dignity? Did you think they'd still be here, waiting for your wrath?"__

Hand's instinctive grip, blade's handle at his back, slipped silent from its sheath. Fingers stealing grounded touch to a body warm behind. Steve leaning to his hand, a breath heated to scalp, brushed to neck's nape. Eyes closed brief, grateful for the touch. Bucky finding purpose, one step taken assassin quiet across the threshold.

" _ _There's nothing here. That time is over. You should have acted then. Dirty faces watching you, thinking you'd save them. Loser. You couldn't save yourself never mind a ragged gaggle of throw-aways."__

An image seen in dreams, haunting bedroom's corners, milky skin, empty stares unblinking. Mind's eye seeing now, thin forms, voiceless floating ethereal surrounding, those he'd left behind. A shiver forcing apparitions to lurk foreboding at shadow's edge.

Familiar hand gentle tug on hair covering his neck, finger's caress of skin, pressed to shoulder, feeding the ache to fall into owning arms. Bucky knowing, no words, touch alone Steve's want to quiet tremors, settle nerves too obvious raw. Arm wrapping shoulders protective, his whisper decisive, "Let me go first, you're shaking," stealing tension from focused thoughts and tendon's taut.

"I got this." Bucky's words choked barely there. Conviction faltering, heart torn wanting Steve skin-close, never far; dichotomy needing him safe, stay by the door. Not swimming in the dark, his past, breathing air stale tainted with blood and tears.

" _ _Memory lane, Soldat. Endless days, chilly nights, crusts of bread, borodinskiy to zavranoy all the same in the end. Shit in a pail, middle of the night soldiers too drunk asleep to notice or care or avail themselves of you dropping your pants. Crisscrossing glorious Mother Russia."__

Bucky's squeeze of Steve's fingers craving touch, haunted by his ghosts, stale bread taste tickling his brain, tremors at memories locked deep buried.

Steve not letting him go, fingers dug pale to flesh, body jerked back, words murmured skin close, "You don't need to do this." Not allowing his twist to free a hip, shrug away from a lover's comfort.

Stubbornness unrelenting; Steve's breath heated to a neck cold with sweat, "It's okay, I'm here," hand wrapped owning in the sweater, palm-wide, fingers taking skin, teased beneath pant's waist. Bucky's gasp not as quiet as he hoped. A turn to let shoulder fall to chest, breath warming cold skin, hard to see in this light, knowing that gaze intense watching him. Holding him. Bucky's whisper, mouth brushed to beard, "God, let me go. I can't think. Just let me go."

"No. Not letting go. You're stuck with me pal." Steve catching waist tighter; defiant spoken want conveyed in tone and breath, body's heat in frigid air, lips pressed to cheek, drawn to lashes, hunger fed against a temple.

Bucky slipping weak, give to firm hands embrace, fitting near, lolling head to meet a mouth taking his skin. Blood heating his gut, cock's twitch disconcerting facing the dark, his past, fears cautious rational of what lay feet away. Body leaned submissive to hands trusted, Bucky's want desperate. Thoughts imaging desires, Steve's strength lifting weight, cradled owning, carrying him away, home, safe, anywhere but here.

" _ _You're making me sick. Proof again why they wiped your mind. Sad, distracted, wanting love and touch and sex. Your weakness will get him killed. You, they'll just torture."__

Head shake, clear the Voice, rattle its taunting to wriggle reluctant from Steve's embrace, trying to break free, not struggling that hard. Words not matching his writhe "Let me go. Really, let go. I have to do this."

Steve not making this easy, all hands and arms and a leg wrapped firm. Image flashing in Bucky's head, two boys wrestling, sand gritted, street scuffed, bedsheets tangled tenement proud; the kiss, the sex, the want dancing electric across the years, sparked bright hot between bodies. Not a dream or wish, or hope, not anymore; real now, tangible hunger.

Stubborn clinging to Bucky, Steve's breath heating skin, "Together, we said together," body shaken underscored. Hand raked to hair rough dragging gaze to connect, light still enough to search gray eyes, uncertainty hiding, hint of fear, not clear. Steve's insistent hand to cheek, arm claiming a waist, hips forced close, so close telling a want overwhelming the cold and shadows and risks hiding in the dark.

"Moy Medved', stop, not here, not now, not yet," Bucky letting body be moved, jerked weak; mouth brushed to mouth, head falling away, escape the kiss inevitable. Steve's insistence, settling lips to neck exposed, Bucky's moan teetering on edge of giving in, "Let me go, for now, just for now."

Seconds hanging balanced, Steve unremitting. Bucky's cautious wriggle to free an arm, hand to chest, thumb taking skin deep enough to rake a line, sharp near painful. Promise for what he'd do, take what he wanted, soon, not yet, rough touch a guarantee. "I promise soon, we can fuck soon. Not yet." Pat to chest, soothing intent, the tremor shaking fingers felt between them both. Bucky's whisper rasped secretive, near suspicious, "I know they're here. I'm sure of it. So, just wait here," fingers tracing Steve's mouth, covering a breath taken to speak, "Shhh, I got this. No worries. I got this."

Steve's hold slipping as Bucky squirmed around in his arms, hand's reluctant fall down a body needed, finger's hook to a pocket; warmth dissipating, cold air swarmed filling the space left between. Dragging gaze from Bucky's face, searching over his shoulder, vision enhanced telling a story. Tone firm certain, bold spoken into the dark, "Buck, there's nothing here."

Backpack stripped, dropped to the floor. One step taken, knife low body close, breath caught nearly held. Bucky's pace staggered hip's wriggle to shake Steve's last cling to his waistband. Second step, quicker, cautious move through a dingy smattering of light. Crossing expectant, sweat pooling low back, bead formed anxious at temple. Bucky letting cold and dark and memories wrap insidious, take thoughts and will and heart. Deeper move into a car teeming with his nightmares.

"Wait. I'm right behind you." Steve's voice muffled quiet, near drowned by train's rattled hum and the mocking of the Voice.

" _ _You're a fool. You're delusional. Thinking you could make this right. Undo what you've done. You don't get forgiveness or redemption. You don't deserve it."__

Looming shadows warping vision scanning left to right to left. Mind certain of history, memory faded by time and Hydra's wipes. Bucky sure of what he'd find hiding in the corners. Dividers jutting from train car's walls, dark remnants of the cells; metal bars torn from moorings.

Gaze seeing what a mind conjured real, gaping space still holding ghosted bodies captive. Gossamer forms, wisps of ragged clothing wind stirred through floorboards torn open by wear and time. Eyes wide staring, pale lit restless spirits waiting patient endless for his return. Bucky's steps guarded progress, iced air swirling up, hair faint tossed, heated skin chilled to a shiver, the knife slipping wet in palm's grip. The cold making breaths panted anxious hang clouded, glisten frozen on lips chapped red.

" _ _They know you Soldat, look at them. See it in their eyes. How long they've waited for you to save them. Too long, Soldat, you kept them waiting too long."__

"Knock it off, I did what I could," Bucky's answer whispered low, not wanting Steve to hear, a mind shaken apologetic, "I'll do it now. Alright? I can do it now?"

Steve following Bucky's figure distinct, at fingertip's edge; glint of a blade in scattered moonlight guarded steps. Pulse throb anxious, hearing Bucky's tone, an answer for someone else not there, not Steve. A demand spoken protective, "Stop listening to that damn Voice."

Bucky too deep into his haunting to hear Steve's words. Dank smells filling nostrils, tickling a brain acquainted with the stench of his trade; fear and blood and death. An ear well-trained to hear a heart beating anxious, breath held too long in apprehension. Sorting through sounds clattered and dull; not hearing what he knew, believed he would find. Wanted desperate to be there. Hope falling victim to an empty darkened train car.

Steve trailing Bucky, wood broken marred uneven beneath feet, steps taken careful. Vision blurred seconds long. Eyes adjusting, a figure darting erratic, disorganized, scent lingering on icy air. Hearing tuned to breath as familiar as his own; straining above the rhythmic rattled clicks and grind loud drifting through floorboards missing. Train's wheels meeting steel loud mixed with ground passing swift. Steve calling as Bucky stumbled into the darkness, too far beyond his reach, "Stay with me, Buck, let me help you."

Bucky pacing quicker, "This isn't right. It's not right," muttering facts held certain; not so much, doubt creeping. Hand reaching out dragged to walls, meant to steady steps, search clues, metal embedding pale lines in time-darkened wood. Bucky's mind rapt taken by the conjuring of his ghosts. Luminescence flowing from metal fingertips marring walls standing witness to his past. Vision caught wide-eyed, gut clenched for apparitions only he could see. Secrets taking form bright tendrils red-silver glow, snaking a waist, nestling sinister tight ankle to knees to balls. Body claimed unwilling, terror voiced in panted breaths staggered loud.

Steve's heart throbbing, breath tight caught in a chest; watching Bucky wrestle manic, flailing uncontrolled with a demon nonexistent. Knife slashing near cut to own body, legs rooted immobile, hands tearing at bindings only visible to his eyes. Steve darting closer, demand to be heard, "There's nothing there. You're okay." First thought risk the knife, dive for a waist, take him hard into a wall, tumble to floor; save him from himself. Logic snatching that plan, picture Bucky's guilt if blade hit a mark unintended, cutting Steve. Tone a measured urgent balancing tender, "Buck, listen to me. Whatever you're seeing, trust me, it's not real. Not real."

Bucky's vision blurred wet, tears slipping hot across cheeks, sweat soaking skin, Steve's voice known intimate cutting thoughts scattered panic, own voice a rasped mimic, "Not real, not real. Leave me alone." Wrestling ropes invisible, balance stolen, hands shoving bindings from a body still free. A stumble over boards warped by wet and time, knees slamming the floor, a mutter confused, not sure himself, "This is the place, I'm right. I know they're here, really here."

Scrambled to feet, Bucky staggering forward, wild turn, knife's blade glinting dim light, cutting assailants invisible. Frustration growled guttural, toss a crate loud angered; door hanging askew ripped harsh from its hinges, clattered ring echoed as it landed. Steps erratic, tripping awkward clumsy driven by his dread; far from his time as the Soldier, steps ordered, deadly quiet.

"Enough," Steve's bark a command not obeyed, "Stop it, come to me," close following Bucky's scattered search. Grab for an arm, slipping from fingers; duck agile, avoid the blade slashing lethal. Body tense, heartbreaking, chasing his soul. Bucky torn to pieces by a mind lost in guilt, tangled captive, tortured by a Voice in his head. Steve shouting, "Stop moving. The floor, it's torn apart, you'll fall."

Metal fist cracked to wooded walls, boot toe jammed, shooting pain ignored, Bucky searching distraught. Sweat beaded incongruous in the cold, crawled disconcerting down a spine tensed raw. Feet slipping patched ice, wrenching a body, hands thrown catching his weight heavy landing hands and knees, breaths rapid gasps burning throat and lungs.

Bucky sure of what he'd find, real people hidden plain sight. Not ghosts given freedom from his mind; always there, hovering ethereal. Constant presence held in balance by the meds, with Steve; redemption a hope dared keeping his guilt tenuous checked.

" _ _All you'll find here is wood stained with blood and piss. Yours and countless others. Strong ones survived nature's choice. Not you. They made you survive, forced it. Brought you back from the brink, time again. As if you meant something to them."__

Bucky's groan tearing lungs, body retching a sob, "Liar, you're a fucking liar. You know as well as I do, they're here. You're in my fucking head." Metal fist slammed through car's far wall, caught sharp surrounded, yanked hard, and harder; rotten wood shattering scattered pieces flying erratic.

A chill spreading mind to blood, Steve's gut rolling bile, clenching a chest, listening to Bucky talk to himself. Damned Voice internal. His groans rasped vehement, bottom falling out, Bucky slipping away. Steve's tone firm, hope for persuasion, distraction, dragging him back from sanity's edge, "That fucking Voice is not real."

Steve reaching through visions and guilt and a past not deserved, not planned or wanted; ripping Bucky from ghosted hands and a mind fragile unbalanced. Steps bold taken, hovering possessive, inches close, wet hair sweat smell wafting, cautious near, mindful of the blade. A plea sputtered intense, heart poured into words felt lacking, "You promised me, you promised to listen to my voice. Only my voice. Come on, pal. Now's the time."

Bucky kneeling at the wall, fingers wrapped around shards, forehead taking faint comfort in cold wood, a tap insistent, quiet the Voice, demons banished through pain self-inflicted. Attention pulled, recognition; Steve's hand glancing a shoulder, tracing biceps tense shaken. A touch craved gentle tug, hair cleared from a neck heated, a body's fall to kneel behind, reminder consuming. Thoughts racing chaotic finding an anchor in a whisper repeated back of neck, to ear, pressed to cheek, "I got you, got you."

Wrist caught tight bound the knife poised threatening. An arm familiar claiming his chest, weight thrown heavy against his body rocked cradled engulfing from behind. Bucky's jerking against a hold persistent, owning him, firing memories incongruous, haunted and treasured. Steve's scent filling nostrils, body fit rushing electric across sinew and nerves.

Strength familiar dragging body weak, forced to stand caught bound against the wall. A restraint flashing intimate, heat pressing close, pinning chest, breath gasped ragged. Nightmares chasing a tremor full-body. His squirm near breaking the hold. Steve's breath hot to skin, arm's crush reassuring, love's undeniable embrace, "It's me. It's Steve. Let go of the knife."

Steve banging wrist to wall, measured careful; shaking finger's hold, the blade rattled to the floor. Weight laid full-force containing Bucky's struggle; warmth spread distracting. Wanting fight to dissipate, unnerved by his body's jerk and slide and rub against his own. Knee tight to thigh, belly to curve adored. Embrace more intimate than aggressive, panted breaths falling into sync, staggered to rhythmic to slow matching chest rise to chest rise.

Metal hand swinging back, a threat halfhearted, clumsy rake of a thigh. Steve's fumbling catch, pining a wrist decisive, both arms stretched over head. A hold defensive, protective, bordering restraint, maybe forced submissive, aching for control. Bucky's whine and squirm starting dangerous, tone's slip provocative, high-pitched breathy sigh, an ask telling not afraid, more wanting to be held locked in place, safe kept in Steve's hands.

Flash of warmth taking Steve's gut, Bucky's hips balking his weight laid claiming. Heat spread unexpected to groin, filling cock. Sounds guttural gasps shared, bodies matching tight muscle to bone, stealing his resolve. Bucky's ass shoved back, forcing a grunt, cock pulsed pain with his demand. Steve's answer a push, deliberate drag, hips grind calculated slow, mirroring their sex. Face buried in hair, nuzzled to neck, touch and breath and body familiar; reminder of their bed, his taking, want demanding its due. Words whispered firm, hoping he'll listen, known voice, trust his touch, "Buck, it's okay, it's over. I got you."

Bucky's voice cracking muffled by a shoulder pinned, wrists restrained impassive, fight waning in Steve's hold. Thoughts paranoid tumbling into arms protective, "Steve? I'm not crazy. I saw them. I'm not wrong."

Steve's soft insistence, teeth raking nape of neck, hips roll near unconscious, needing cock pressed to ass. Whispered breath, "I'm right here, I got you. I believe you. We can talk. Not here, not in here." Weight stayed lingering, not released or moved, drowning in the comfort of body's fit and give, and scent pulled hungered. Eyes closing, stolen seconds, Steve letting body, heart, and mind slip lost intimate.

Bucky caught beneath Steve's weight comforting familiar, stealing fight groaned angry slipping to a moan, his want gasped staggered, not hiding his ache for Steve's touch, his possession, cock filling his body. Hips squirm changing, jerked balk to teasing rhythmic. Heart pulsed bounding back to chest, palm's spread owning over hands, trusted hold needed; fingers entwined reminder of their nights, and sex and Steve rough taking delicate flesh.

Steve needing Bucky, body heat filling a soul, flesh salted sweet, scent Brooklyn tough hint of wonder, fledgling care. Memory calling images forward, gray eyes wide, no words needed or spoken; trying soaps scented. Steve's hands wrapped luxurious in hair lathered, head lolling indulgent, trusting his touch, bottles lined sets of three, raspberry, apple, tea tree a preference.

Every second spent, skin brushed to skin, distance apart stirring an ache unending, Steve's thoughts grounded in Bucky, all else a fleeting distraction. Flesh soft to rough, to metal forged, skin's taste craved, scent intoxicating, all embedded indelible in his brain. A thought reassuring, train car empty, no one watching, tsking, staring. Steve nuzzling past hair covering a cheek, mouth finding an ear, a neck, teeth's pull of skin. Hips matching Bucky's tease, body's fit natural, known, bed's comfort imagined driving aside cold and dark and ghosts stealing Bucky from his arms.

Steve freeing a wrist, hand catching a cheek, thumb's rake of Bucky's mouth, dipping wet. Thoughts lost in the sound of Bucky's breath pulled sharp mixed whine, low moan with every twitch and push and grind of Steve's body owning. Pulling mouths close, tongue's lick a tease to lips, forcing that sound, Steve addicted, body weakened possessed by that sigh. A kiss full covering, driving tongue deep stealing his breath, moan felt and heard shared rumble.

A tremor shaking Bucky's body, pulled from the kiss, needing words spoken not wanting to let even a breath to keep him from Steve. A whisper spoken hot and wet, tip of tongue glanced to tongue, "Make love to me, Stevie, right here, now. Right now."

Hand slipping to brace lifting Bucky's jaw, Steve forcing space, searching eyes half-lidded, pupils dark and wide and wild, faint haunted glimpse. Fighting body's want, debate internal, tipping to fall logical, keeping Bucky safe.

Forehead pressed to temple, Steve's muttered consolation, "No. Not here, not now. You're, you're not okay. We need to get you out of here." Flesh and metal entwined, pulling their arms encircling, tugging Bucky from the wall, across the floor. Stumbled steps entangled, boyhood wrestle turning serious; bodies tight, morphing clumsy.

Head shake slow, building emphatic, Bucky muttering, "No, stay here." Dead-weight's drag, tension's spread, hard to accept Steve's refusal. Body tugged, pulled, tossed reticent; arm's strength overwhelming, final lift of Bucky's weight, feet kicking, hand's flailed reach for solid. Whined protest, "It's okay. I'm fine. Let's stay here."

Steve determined, seconds passing, Bucky's fight making his case, better to leave, get him out into warmth and light; leaving ghosts locked in a train car abandoned.

Twisting wriggle Bucky not escaping. Steve stubborn strong, engulfing from behind, a waist clenched painful tight, arm trapped near useless. Bucky's growl sullen angry, lifting feet braced to a wall, thigh's burn raced to hips.

A shove full-strength staggering Steve. Steps tripping awkward, balance gone, carrying Bucky. A stumble back quick building speed entering a space ominous dark, three walls close surrounding. Steve crashing abrupt against the train's outer wall. The jolt shaking a hold meant protective, vision splintered, head cracked sharp. Grunted air forced from lungs, enough to groan, "Fuck. What are you doing?"

The wall thick immovable, dampness wafting cold surrounding, eyes closing brief, Steve letting barbed pain race through muscles tense, wet droplets stirring a gaze up. Car's roof torn wide over his head, swirling snow falling chaotic, eyes blinking as it fell. Waning moon shedding pale light, focus clearing, Steve looking down. Bucky kneeling at his feet, face shadowed angelic in that sliver of moon, gray eyes glinting bright, too bright. Steadying hold grabbing his shoulders, keep him still, don't let him escape; gut-twisting apprehensive, want competing with concern, Bucky slipping over an edge unseen.

"Listen to me," Bucky's voice lilting soft floating above train car's rattle, "Make love to me." Steve frozen passive split seconds gaze locked, body aware hands deliberate stroke of thighs, a touch electric, racing, firing belly's clench wanting more. Touch craved. Bucky leaning a tease, "You never know, when, maybe we won't have a chance again. Come on Stevie, do it." Mouth's brush, teeth's nip to pant's bulge, his cock; head rolling slow, an answer weak, words abandoned, protest futile, body telling all.

Steve caught in that gaze, hands known trusted caress, fingers looping waistband, pant's button flipped dramatic. Bucky testing resolve, knowing Steve, limits weak, easy to persuade, tease, seduce. Teeth's ragged bite of a cock still covered, forcing eyes closed, blood pulsed. Rasped whisper aching, heard deep embedded in his brain, "Fuck me, Stevie, I need you inside of me."

Metal thumb raking pressured to cock, inexorable slow. A smirk, playful clear, toying, light flash of not stable, finger's digging grasp of flesh. Steve catching breath in a gasp, frigid air clouded. Pain exquisite, want still frightening, hand catching a metal wrist, tentative struggle, neither letting go. Steve torn, mind saying fight his hold, carry, push, pull whatever it takes, tear hands from his body, overpower. Drag a soul drowning from the dank wetness surrounding.

Rush of heat spread wild across skin body's crave stealing thoughts logical. Steve releasing wrist's hold, cupping Bucky's cheek, raked into hair. Drawn in by gray eyes spark, and a smile telling he'd won.

Time slowing, soft moans echoed, snow blurring Steve's vision, Bucky's movements graceful, ethereal in pale light and shared breath clouded cold. Pants worked open, tugged clear, Steve intent watching Bucky; tongue wetting lips purposeful slow, making him wait, teasing smile fleeting. Hands chill in icy wind stroke a belly taking heat, embrace his ass, slip possessive across skin anxious for his touch, his taking. Nipples edged tender to pained; Steve shaken knees to head, pulse's bound temple to heart to gut, craving Bucky's owning.

A thumb hard metal slow pulled intimate between legs, delicate skin embraced, taken palm full. Bucky's hand not cold, not there, not ever. Eyes adoring, study Steve's face, flick of a finger, lashes fluttered; tight grip rolling flesh razor's edge of pain, forcing a gasp air pulled sharp rasped mouth open. Head dropped loud to wood; his command, his touch soft to rough claiming Steve. Tongue's tip catching that vein, long and full and telling, tracing his length, seconds crawling past, wet line urging hips forward, an ask, a beg for Bucky's mouth.

Knees breaking weak, Steve slipping inches down the wall, fingers rough carding Bucky's hair, head jerked, moonlight's shine reflective in gray eyes staring back. Mouth wide, tongue's lick midair, reaching for his cock. That smile, knowing, smirk gentle, not cruel, sure of their want, how his touch sent fire through a body devote, his forever. A gaze dipping pointed, thumb's rake up flesh, catching milky whiteness, delicate balanced brought to mouth. Eyes shifting to Steve's, assured of his watching, Bucky pulling lip between teeth, thumb to mouth, slow taunting, licking Steve's cum, a smile for the tremored groan "Damn," pulled from Steve's chest.

Bucky's laugh unnerving, not a giggle or loud, more playful, maybe unhinged, just a bit. Steve snatching jacket's collar, yanked to his feet, a kiss possessed, mouth crashing over mouth, tongue pushed near invasive. Bucky's tease rattling nerves, not waiting, not playing, Steve driving him back, urgency lifting weight irrelevant, half turned stumble colliding with a wall hemmed in.

Steve tearing at Bucky's clothes, not breaking the kiss; jacket striped from shoulders, body jerked rag-doll easy. A whine filling his mouth, cock's throb at the mercy of Bucky's moan. Rough tug, hands urgent, maybe frantic, pants pulled open torn down, clearing a cock's wet cum glistened. Mouths parted a breath, foreheads pressed heated, demand rasped low undeniable, "Get them off, get them off."

Breath shuddered, hinted panic, Bucky kicking at boots, unlaced as he knelt. Pants wriggled and tugged own hands, Steve slapping his aside rough desperate dragging pants clear; catching Bucky's stumble shoved back to wall, pinned still, hand to chest, heartbeat's rapid thud beneath fingers. Sweat's sheen chest and throat and belly, Bucky's want tangled with fear, Steve changing his mind. Logic knowing risks high, fucking on a train Russian owned, Moscow bound, Vory guarded. A rush defiant for a Soldier, controlled, abused, agency stolen, ages lived in Mother's shadow. Bucky needing this moment, this revolt from shackles still weighted in a mind nebulous stable. One regret, not telling Steve.

Moonlight slipping gone into dawn's darkest time. Steve not needing light, Bucky's body, curves and dips burned indelible in a brain obsessed. Hip's bones hard caress, cupping his ass, finger's exploration, teasing flesh open, Steve craving tight darkness heated, hip's subtle tilt meeting his push. Head lolled slow rock foreheads meeting, lips press to temple and lash, tongue's lave inviting across a mouth's open search. Cocks laid close, tight writhe measured, not forced or rough, a taunt laying claim. Gaze lost in shadows, breaths panted, hot to skin, chest's rise and fall meeting his own, telling Bucky's need.

Bucky catching Steve's hair, arm wrapping a neck, teeth taking a lip tugged sharp, tongue's push deep wet, filling his mouth; "Remember me," words skittering faint in thoughts. A leg wrapping thigh, near climbing Steve's body, elbows brace to shoulders, ankle hooked to ass, tendon's burn rhythmic, forcing hips to meet, heat spreading. Break from the kiss, a shiver taking muscle and bone, "Come inside me, please. come inside me. Do it, before someone finds us."

Steve lost, all-in, no looking back, Bucky filling senses. Scent bittersweet, salt air's echo, sand's grit, gun oil faint; hint of lavender incongruous. Body heat shared sweat, pressed groin to belly, skin rough to tender electric under palm's caress. Bucky's kiss frantic, metal fingers hair entangled, scalp's sting, head held captive to a mouth's hungered take. Coherent thought disappearing, Bucky's force insistent, flirting manic, Steve's words flashed internal, split second "Why now, why here?" Questions shoved aside hearing Bucky's moan low growled break the kiss, teeth nipping pain to Steve's lip bruised red, a voice scratched raw, "Fuck me, Stevie, do it."

A body needed, Steve grasping Bucky's thighs, weight lifted not heavy. An image quick, more a feeling, hot sun bearing down, ocean's waves, thin arms lifting Bucky; legs wrapping a waist small, buoyant water carrying. A laugh freer then, foreheads pressed, a tease finding it's home a hundred years now, voice haunting, "See punk, you're not that scrawny." Not a dream, muscles tensed barely, arms snaking under knees, holding Bucky poised, suspended, back to wall, strength keeping him caught, waiting expectant. Dawn's light hinting faint, Steve's gaze locked with gray eyes, pupils wide dark and hungered, edged with Voices tormenting. Breaths panted warm to mouths brushing close.

Steve dragging wetness from Bucky's tongue, wrapping own cock, his entering deliberate slow, craving pressure's build, a moan, sweat's instant spread. Tremor wracking Bucky's body, legs wrapped possessive, ankles crossed urging impatient. Breaths mingled, their kiss held suspended, waiting, cock's base brushed to skin, darkness filled. Steve's palm wrapping Bucky's length, thumb's caress deliberate, firm, telling; forcing eyes shut, head falling to a shoulder, air gasped owned, submissive, craving Steve's touch. A murmur whispered to Bucky's cheek, "I love that sound, you, that moan, your breath."

Bodies close, not enough, Bucky engulfing Steve; metal arm cradling a neck, fingers rake of hair, red lines scratched to skin, pulling a hiss coveted. Needing a mark left behind, dark bruise bitten hot swollen to flesh tender given open unguarded. A claim brief, there for a time, for Steve to touch and ache and mourn. Legs flexed desperate hard, urging hips move, cock's deep take, needing fired stretch to settle in muscles and bone, no light no air between them. Bucky wanting this pain, forever embedded in cell and sinew, memory burned never fleeting when he leaves Steve behind. Time stolen by a fall and ghosts and revenge long overdue. Mouth hungered for mouth, tongue pushed matching Steve's hips, rhythmic taking, rough and full and time running out.

Hard to resist, to think, to hold back coming. Steve's palm slipping tight, thumb's trace of a vein firm relentless, wanting Bucky's breath to catch, body shudder, forcing the milky tell to spill on his skin, white and thick and fired evidence of his owning. A caress taking flesh not gentle, matching his push, cock's filling rhythmic, a tongue's deep excursions, taste and air stolen, deeply embedded in memory-bound forever. Thoughts scattered by the ache and Bucky's breath grunted abrupt with every stroke and thrust rhythmic. A groan rumbled in Steve's chest, wanting home, longing for their bed; for slow and soft and time taken to bring Bucky to his edge, hold him rapt, coming denied, relenting at his beg, squirmed whine. Reveling in the heat and sweat and cock's pressured drive repeated. Bucky's mouth stealing breath, leaving a moan unnerving, echoed in his head. Metal fingers burn of skin, nerves fired pained pleasure, knowing that he's real, not ghost or dream or a heart's lost regret.

A thumb's graze of sensitive skin, toying scrap pulling a shudder, earning a bite to lip already bruised. Heated drop from Bucky's cock warming cold skin, taking Steve past control, a wish for longer, not able to wait, cum spilled desperate jerked, deep filling Bucky's body. "Fuck," Steve's panted whisper covered by Bucky's mouth, tongue's drag of lips, wet and hungered. Hips rolling up into a hand still wrapped, still stroking skin full and pulsed; warmth spilled on fingers, a drop, then another, muscles shaken near convulsed, Bucky's cum spewing hot. A voice kept silent, a sigh breathed secret; shudder full-body, metal fingers digging cramped pain to shoulders. Teeth's bite of a neck up-turned, blood pulled to skin. Leaving his mark, a memory, his claim for anyone to see, for Mother to see; brief and proud and defiant. Steve catching milky liquid ravenous, spread craven on bellies, deep pressed to a thigh, wearing his cum skin covered absorbed, a lover real, possessed.

Steve holding Bucky against the wall, strength of weight and hips and a body spent, heads lolling tucked in comfort, fluttered kisses dropped random, nose to cheek to neck, both clinging precious, lost forever, not letting go. Sixth sense tickled irrational, Bucky slipping away, a shadow cold lost.

Dawn's gray light filtering in through a ceiling rotted, a high placed window in car's main bay beyond the space where they stood. Awareness coming back, Steve seeing first-time cramped space surrounding, darkness looming, dampness stifling. Wooden walls bearing scars man-made, odd configuration, lines precise repeated, three and three and three. Eyes blinking, clear vision, thoughts random falling to questions exacting; painful not wanting to believe a trail leading to Bucky slumped passive in embrace protective. Steve's voice rasping raw, "Where are we?"

Bucky not answering, head nestled deeper to Steve's neck, chest rise and fall settling, hair hiding features. His response, legs tightening, arms grip of shoulders, a sigh shakey, near a whine irritation deflecting talk and questions and spirits imbued in pale lines metal lodged in a cage, safe-place years counting.

Steve taking in a room emerging, light growing, gaze detail-focused, the walls covered bottom to top, side to side ragged lines grouped. His counting serum enhanced, hundreds of marks; heartbeat skipping erratic, bile's rise, putting pieces together. Hatch marks counting days or kills or abuse a mind blocked abhorrent. Deliberate glance towards the door, not wood but metal bars, floor to ceiling, thick and strong and purpose ominous clear. Chains lodged in far wall, snaked rusted across a floor warped and stained, blood red flashing in a mind racing, "Jesus, we're in a cell? A cell. You knew?"

Grip adjusted, Bucky clinging tighter, shooting numbness chased across Steve's shoulders, down a leg. Worry building, voice deep cracked; clearing hair's cascade, loving caress of a face nuzzled hidden, "You knew, tell me. This isn't, it's not where? Look at me."

Heartbeats mingled, chest to chest, skin to skin, Bucky nipping an ear, dragging pull, needing sweat's taste lodged, lip's feel of a neck to stay pore-deep in memory buried protected. Legs and arms slow uncurled from wrapping Steve's body. A confession unavoidable rolling a gut torn by fleeting sleep, ghosts taunted, convictions proved shamefully wrong. Bare feet touched apprehensive to cold wood, a shiver making steps unsteady, caught by Steve's hand, firm hold grounding. Eyes averted, no words, breath pulled measured quiet, not wanting to be heard or found, past mingling with now, true self hiding in a mind haunted even in the light.

Steve quick dragging own clothes into place; a hand rough owning Bucky's cheek, hair brushed messy clear, a duck to see a face turned away. A statement unrelenting, "Let's get you dressed."

Bucky avoiding Steve's gaze, hesitant taking clothes, unsteady pulling a foot through pant's leg. Mind groggy, sleep a distant past, his ghosts demanding full attention, all energy spent. A touch reassuring, Steve's lean into a hip, steady an arm, tugging pants up, gentle caring. Bucky giving over to hands craved trusted familiar; lashes fluttered with finger's gentle drag across a belly exposed, stolen caress last second before pulling a zipper closed, sweater careful tugged back into place. Steve's hover reassuring, possessive; warmth spreading through a body gone cold, sex done, frigid air; Bucky's plan, his hopes, so certain of what he'd find, falling apart in the day's revealing light.

Steve keeping close, not letting body's heat dissipate between them, words quiet, worry clear, "Come on, you have to talk to me." Arm wrapping a waist, near lifting, pulling Bucky beyond metal grates, out of the cell, his past; chest tightening with a rage simmering deep and long and fanned bitter white-hot. Car's content coming clear as Steve's gaze darted wall-to-wall, imagined home for the ghosts that haunted Bucky only minutes earlier, darkness covering; calculated study of the cell left behind. Cubicles in disarray, walls jutting into car's center, remnants of cages or worse imaginings. "What the hell is this place?" Steve tucking fatigued into a corner, a wall half gone, dragging Bucky near, embraced in arms protective, a leg wrapped consuming, not letting him go, escape, be stolen by ghosted tendrils felt not seen, clinging to a body exhausted.

Hard to look at Steve; gaze worried, love hinted, maybe there, likely not. Bucky seeing only judgment. Feelings uncertain, gut twisted, heart pained. Haunted by ghosts, real, there, seen and felt and tangible in the dark. Abandoned in the light. A cell, his marks, days endless seeming. A mind erased, not remembering time and place and past. Bucky knowing the meaning of lines drawn exact counted in threes. A sickness coming on, need to puke, to retch unforgiven, guilt holding him accountable.

Steve's whisper rasped to dark hair, scent breathed hungered, "God, Buck, why? I don't understand."

Sweater pulled over hands balled cold. Arms crossing chest, settled in the safety of Steve's tight surrounding. A shiver cold, maybe anxious, near convulsed. Bucky shrugged slow rise and fall, head wagged reading indifferent, truth held locked internal, maybe a memory escaping, more a story not wanting to fall in the light, to be heard and voiced and judged, "You said you knew. What they did, to me. What I did."

"I didn't know about this," Steve's words stifled, regret laced thick.

Bucky's mutter purposeful garbled against a chest, "The cell, the dark. Safer here, in a cage." Knees giving out, Bucky slow dropped to kneel, head pressed to a thigh, arms cling to Steve's legs, nuzzling hair beneath finger's caress. Hands shoved, self-soothing between thighs, a pause too long, words spoken for himself, "Safer in there, than out here. Where anyone can do what -" Bucky letting words fall away, secrets not ready to be told, not to Steve.

Steve letting shoulders wedge fatigued to a corner, ragged slide down the wall, wrapping Bucky owned, needing his weight pressed to chest, knees drawn up, locking him in place, tucked surrounded, mind wandering to fears unfounded, unsure, real-world stealing him away. Seconds passing, gaze close study, Bucky curled fetal in his arms; body tell afraid, trembling ashamed. Heart breaking at his pain, "What are we doing here. What were you looking for? Please just tell me."

A sigh leading to a breath pulled slow shaken, Bucky's voice muttered resigned, "Children. Kids, I don't know. I thought -"

"They'd still be here? Buck, how? That's impossible." Steve letting slip hinted disbelief.

Bucky snaking a hand beneath Steve's' sweatshirt, twisting a T-shirt into a ball against a chest, finger's scraped evidence burning skin, "No. Too late for them, too late. Children, women, now. He's still doing it, taking their lives, their innocence. I saw them on the train, I'm sure. Maybe not. I was dreaming? Seeing things? I don't know. It seemed so real."

Steve's arm surrounding, hair stroked loving from a forehead damp cold, "There are children everywhere on here. How do you know which ones? All of them, some?"

Knees pulled up, tighter ball, tension crawling down a back, spread to chest and tone, "You think I'm crazy, don't you? I am, but not about this, I think, maybe I'm wrong? I'm seeing things, I'm taking the meds I swear."

Hand cupping a cheek turned away, pulling Bucky's focus, Steve needing him to see words reflected sincere, trusted, never doubting in his gaze, "I don't doubt you. Stress, you don't sleep, or eat, it's - it's killing you." Pulling mouths near, a kiss desperate deep, telling a heart's worst fear rasped soft, not wanting fate to hear, "I can't lose you, not again."

"I'm sorry. Stevie, I'm sorry. Don't be mad." Bare feet scooted closer, near climbing into Steve's skin, close not ever near enough.

Steve's words left affectionate to the top of Bucky's head, a kiss to mark each phrase, "Mad? I can't be mad at you. I can't."

"Hold me?" Bucky's whisper not heard but felt in muscle and bone and heart.

Steve pulling body tight wrapping around Bucky "I got you. It's okay."

Watching Bucky curled engulfed by his body, sunlight peeking in ceiling missing a board, bright line across their bodies; brown hair streaked near blond in yellowed glow. Steve carding fingers through the softness, dark tangled with streaked light. "Did you know the sun makes your hair have blond streaks? Can't believe I just noticed it. Now, after all this time." Steve toying playful with long hair, gentle tugging a strand long, extended, a demonstration for Bucky to examine, patch of light spreading across the floor, warming bodies entangled. Skin faded dark beneath eyes tired, filled sad, a mouth turned down with regret. Steve's thoughts wandering home, decision made over-ruling, unwilling partner to the plan any longer. A breath pulled to speak caught off-guard.

"You're wearing my shirt," Bucky lifting Steve's clothes, pinching the T-shirt's snug fit catching enough skin for a muscle to twitch, "You stretched it."

Steve covering finger's pinch, pulled to mouth, a kiss dropped discreet each fingertip. "I'll buy you a new one. Ten of them, wait not ten. Nine or ninety, however many that will make you happy." Steve running a hand down Bucky's chest, "You're wearing my sweater, that hem's never gonna be the same after all the twisting you've done to it. Not to mention the borscht stains."

Bucky nuzzling head to neck, arms wrapping a waist, "Sorry. I'll steal you a new one."

"No Buck. I don't' want a new one," Steve tugging at hair, Bucky's head lifted, foreheads pressed, breaths exchanged warm to mouths close, "I want that one. Twisted and worn and hem messed up and covered in stains and your sweat."

"My cum."

Steve's laugh soft, "That too." Words flowing heartfelt, an ache soul-deep, "Your scent and you. I want that sweater, just like it is. With you all over it, so every time I wear it, it's like I'm wearing you. Your skin laid on my skin, your smell filling my senses. I'll wear it and think about you. Dream about you, hell I'll even jerk myself off just holding that sweater to my face. Feel you right next to my mouth, my heart."

"That's a tiny bit gross," Bucky's lean bringing mouths to brush careful, "And hot actually. But nice, I like it."

Minutes passing slow, Steve holding Bucky, flirting with sleep long missed and needed. Bucky cradled in arms, face turned up, eyes closed, Steve's murmur pressed to a forehead, "We're going home now, Buck. No arguments, no mission. No widow, no Architect. No more."

"You don't understand." Bucky's squirm, not a fight, a wriggle to see Steve's gaze.

Cupping Bucky's face, body holding him still, a gaze intense met with equal resolve, "No more. This is wrong, not safe. I swear to you, we can go after him another way, we can get help. Stark, Fury, someone will back us and if they don't then fuck them. We'll do this ourselves, with a plan."

"But..."

"No arguments." Steve quieting Bucky's protest with a kiss, tongue's slip internal, taking wetness, his taste. Hope to convince, persuade, veer from the path wild-chosen and ill-planned. Steve's heart filled with fear, every second passing on a mission fated desperate. Bucky fighting his guilt, his ghosts, a Voice's cruel taunts unraveling a mind cherished.

Bucky lost in Steve's hold, fatigue taking muscle and bone, his warmth filling pores, mind slipping towards home and safe and the feel of Steve's embrace, a word not needed to convey what eyes, and touch and a soul wrapped defensive told every second. Sleep taking his attention, relenting to Steve's insistence, wanting his warmth, tendons, and sinew falling slack, trusting arms encircling protective.

A noise clattered sharp breaking their rest. Startled awake, bodies jerked from a hold safe, eyes drawn to far wall, gaping hole torn by Bucky's fist. Boards shoved loud tumbled to the floor. Bucky struggling in Steve's hold, "Where's my backpack? Shit," fighting to get up, hands holding in place, body close, leg's strength keeping him still, "Shit, I need it, I need the meds, now. Fuck."

Steve stubborn clinging to Bucky, trapped between his legs, voice gritted firm, "If you need the meds because of those kids over there, then I need them too. I see them, all of them. Buck, they're real." Catching Bucky's face, forcing a look, a stare towards the vision driving Bucky to run, escape, chase for meds left at the door. "Look at them, Buck, look. You were right. Damn it, you were right. They're real."

Children emerging from a door destroyed by a metal fist, faint light backlit from a room with mats scattered random. A boy no more than seven, spiked hair askew, dark gaze wary; tall girl, long braids golden, too thin for a young woman coming of age; a child perched sleeping on her hip. Three brave enough to step forward, staring unremitting, questions asked in eyes taught harsh lessons, trust eroded too soon. Shadows of others, short and tall, ages varied hovering behind, real not ghosts or demons or visions of a mind ripped apart by guilt.

Bucky falling back into Steve's embrace, breath staggered unbelieving, heartbeat racing in throat and temple and chest. Face turned buried to a chest, arms engulfing; letting the sob escape, tears held hours, days, years, hostage to his guilt, spilled wet. Body wracked shaken, held steady, comforting, loving by Steve.

A kiss gentle dropped to hair wet with sweat anxious. Steve rocking Bucky's sobs, hand cupping back of neck, fingers tangled in hair long, pressed to a pulse, words soft reassuring, affection spreading warm, sunlight filling a car, driving ghosts to seep unseen into wood's crevices and cracks, "It's okay, you were right, Sunshine. You were right."

Bucky's sobs releasing a pain long-held, quieting regret that taunted his sleep and peace. They failed to drown the Voice; words roared loud and unrelenting,

" _ _Bravo, Soldat. Bravo. Job well done. Soldat three. The Archit__ _ _ect zero. Enjoy the victory asset. The old man does not like to lose__ _ _."__


	25. Chapter 25 Vodka, Pickles, Rash Decision

Frigid air seeping through finite seams, the Quinjet settled creaks and moans, engines went silent after Sam's maneuvered landing on a roof he deemed a risk. Chance taken balanced with urgent, the building sprawled beneath matching the name scratched shaken in Barnes' hand. Thoughts muttered aloud, "Alright, four out of five of those hen-scratched letters matched. Building's right out of Hydra's playbook. Stand-alone, gated entrances, active in the '50s and '60s." A data search unearthed disturbing implications, "What the hell did Hydra want with an orphanage?"

Measured stance toes lined exacting, bright yellow line of demarcation before the Quinjet doors, feet appearing obedient to the painted warning. Each sneaker an inch across the line, enough to satisfy an irreverent daring, not enough to lose a foot if the ramp dropped open sudden.

Sam allowing eyes to close dry, breath settling a mind calm before he implements his plan, bold knocking on a door solo. A mutter groused quiet, "Alright Cap, no answer, no word from you, not even a thumbs-up. I know you know how to use a damn emoji, so it's gotta be him; I hate to say this but, what's-his-name is a bad influence. You two just better not be, you know, doing it, you know, the deed," head shaken at an image conjured disturbing, "That's all I'm gonna say."

Mind's eye recalling a sight more soothing, his flight into Moscow sprawling picturesque. Light of dawn hiding below dark shadows of spikes and spires. Yellow lights of a city slumbering bright circle center, spokes spreading out beneath a sky awash with stars, thrown far random scattered, dancing glitter overhead. Moon's fall and sun's rise teetering, time holding its breath dark quiet not yet awake beneath a vast blue-black expanse.

Cell phone ping a startle, pulling Sam back to the passenger bay, lights turned off, cold air chilling breath visible. Body twisting anxious, head tilted sharp, working angles convoluted to improve signal's reception. Natasha's whisper garbled, imbued sober, beyond any tone he'd heard from her before; foreboding underlying, "Ivan Petrovitch. The Architect is Petrovitch. I knew him. A long time ago. We have - a story for another day." Last sentence definitive, "He is not a nice man."

Sam's words rushed between static fits, "I'm texting you a name, a building, those clues of his, Barnes, on his damn sweaty, ratty, filthy scrap of paper that he probably swiped from my impeccable filing system in the tactical room." Reining in his rant with a sigh and a modicum of self-control, "The second line wasn't a number. It's a name, not a person, a building. Are you there? Did you hear me?"

Natasha's voice scratched erratic, reception faltering in cold and distance, and questionable service, "Looking for Rogers - Barnes - sucks."

"Barnes sucks? Absolutely. An indisputable fact." Not entirely convinced it was what Natasha meant to say, Sam's annoyance with Bucky needing an outlet. "Tasha, listen, I'm gonna check this place out, not gonna lie, I am not planning on freezing to death waiting for your merry band to get here." Quick texting coordinates, a struggle with Cyrillic letters, a mutter for her, more for himself, "Damn, hope you get this. Tasha? Nat?"

A hum low-key interfering, the line falling silent, no breaths or words, or noise of a train barreling towards Moscow. A click ominous following, raising suspicions, cold flush of sweat back of neck. Sam scrambling to cover, voice lilting playful, "Can't wait to see you, Sis. Enjoy the train, so very quaint, little houses, snow, food, more snow. Lots to see and do in Moscow," hand to mouth, loud gestured kiss irrelevant, an ask dead serious before hanging up, "Bring food. Sweetie, food."

Sam pacing quick steps rounding the passenger bay, a plan forming nebulous, feeling the need to move, explore the dilapidated complex beneath the Quinjet's gears. "Barnes, have I told you what an asshole you are? No? Not enough definitely, never enough." Pulling collar up, jacket tugged tighter, a glance around the shadows, caught abrupt, glimmer of light on metal propped prominent in a storage bin. Circular edge sharp line, red star surrounded by silver, the shield awaiting a hand known familiar, its keeper a thousand miles away. Sam toying with a thought, take it with him, a weapon or a cover, uncertain what he'd find, building's history telling of children held for years.

A finger slipping along an edge hard sharp, debate internal lasting seconds uncertain. Sam opting for another approach, "Yeah, this would be hard to explain."

Decision made leaving the shield, a turn towards the ramp's slow drop open steps picking up speed deliberate. A ball cap tugged from a back pocket, red letters spelling, _Dodgers_ , scrolled across the front. An item scored from an overhead storage bin jammed tight under the first aid kit. A smirk knowing full well it belonged to Barnes. A gift from Steve, lost in the chaos of his rescue-escape a few months earlier after the old Widow held him captive.

Sam thoughtful reshaping the cap, rolled and pulled to fit snug on his head, brim tucked down, "Alright, let's do this, Barnes. Hopefully, your old Hydra pals are too dumb to notice a jet double-parked on their roof."

A shiver pulled involuntary, cold air assailing or a body's response to what he faced unsure. His steps direct across a hard tar surface, bubbled weak by time and disrepair, the Quinjet ramp silent shutting. A mutter unnerved, "Or, they notice it when the roof caves in."

The black iron fire escape swaying too perceptible, sweat dampening armpits annoying, Sam's immediate regret for leaving his wings tucked safe in the jet. Slow descent facing red brick glowing yellow hot in the first light of sun's rise, dust falling as his weight rocked the moorings with each step down. "I hate you, Barnes," a mantra repeated offering solace and motivation, an outlet for methodically ticked plans of retribution at the soonest date once they were home; maybe before.

Feet hitting the ground, sighed relief, a glanced quick reconnaissance steps quiet, skirt the wall, duck windows barred, slip unnoticed beneath a camera scanning gates chained yards away. A driveway pot-holed gravel in disrepair, snow glistening flat iced in morning's light. Sam reaching stairs wide stretch, their rails ornate at one time, curled iron now rusted, tines missing, tossed aside frozen to the ground. Sad testament to time, hope for doors to be locked, no one there, a place haunting Barnes's memory, a thing to be forgotten now. Sam hoping to call a litany of teasing tell him it's done, empty, let it go. All meant sincere in secret, never telling him true feelings, glad to see him free of one ghost anyway. Not giving him that leg up in their rivalry.

A sigh resigned, Sam flipping the ball cap to sit backward snug, collar pulled up, his steps switched from clandestine to bold. Shoulders back telling of brave or foolish or a plan improvised with each passing second. Striding up two steps at a time, approaching doors thick wood carved, divets and chunks missing, the glass wavy old still clear enough to see a hall dark tiled and empty except for thin-legged chairs lined along a wall. His knock firm telling of a man on a mission, driven, focused, absolutely sure of what he wanted at least giving that impression. The sound echoed abrupt, knuckles aching from his enthusiasm, his stopping with the creak of a door distant opening. Steps hurried, rushing forward, anxious gaze watching three people rapid approaching his calling at their entrance. Steps back thoughts running scenarios, the doors clunking wide open, hair standing up along arms, back of neck, two men clearly armed flanking a woman robust and round and glaring a look threatening. Flash of thoughts to Sokolov, the woman's dress and demeanor similar, except this one was larger.

Sam blurting loud, channeling his deepest buried obnoxiousness, drawled accent unrecognizable for its location, not mattering to his audience, "Hello, hello, hello! How is everyone this fine morning? Did I wake you? I'm sorry. They didn't tell you I'd be here?" Pamphlets tugged from a back pocket waved flamboyant under noses, tucked discreet into his jacket before anyone could notice what was written. The papers a collection of travel brochures, colorful bright eye-catching from their mission in Cartagena, souvenirs of Bucky's obsession with all things bright shiny since his liberation from Hydra. Sam ploughing on, "I am Samual "Birdman" Wilson and I am here to scout this location." Hands waving an imaginary banner grand wide and loud, "A blockbuster thriller coming your way! Big names, famous director, can't say who yet, not yet, I can see you are excited. Let's do this. Lots of money, rubles, right? You like rubles, yes?" Sam pouring considerable effort into his charade, hands planted on hips, wide stance, a smile as engaging as he could conjure after an all-night flight without food. His sales pitch aptly backlit by the sun's bright golden rise.

Bucky didn't want to sob, not like this, choking on air stuck throat closing, chest ache with every gasp. A groan stifled quiet, reasons swirling mismatched. Steve's possessive cradle head to chest, heartbeat comforting against his temple, Bucky not wanting him to hear and feel and shake even sympathetic to his body's wracking spill of tears. Memory conjuring history's lesson, silence safer, divert the scrutiny of handlers long dead not there, ghosts still a keen witness to his faltering, cruel waiting to mock, boot toes scolding his moans. Not wanting remorse on public display, judgment deserved, soul torn bare in front of scratched marks counting the dead, silent stare of children, or Steve, not like this, in front of Steve. Tremors hard to stop, keep control, whirl of metal fingers digging white scars to flesh cherished, not wanting to hurt the only one he trusted.

He didn't want to cry like that, face wet hot tears, staining cheeks, familiar hand's caress gentle brushed aside as they fell. Steve's voice a warm hum consoling, grief doubling down as wetness spread across a chest broad and sure and protective; stained shirt evidence of his weakness, own thoughts flogging shame.

Air gasped ragged, trying to stop, thoughts telling to break Steve's hold, get to feet, race for the door, wracking sobs stealing nerves and bone. A hiccup uncontrolled loud and sloppy and cheeks flushed embarrassed red, driving muscle's clinch, need to escape, retreat. Find solace in the pills, small voice near familiar, maybe own, fairly sure, urgent whisper "Take them all, sleep forever."

Scrambling up, feet bare on wet floor, his stagger flailing caught by arms strong and sure and stubborn, Steve not allowing his squirm to slip away, wrestling awkward ending center of the car. Bucky falling in behind Steve, held captive willing by hands reaching back, pulled tight close, face buried against nape of neck, scent of salt and sweat, and sex; hair tickling a cheek raw and red-colored with grief.

Steve's whisper, "They're not ghosts," soothing towards long hair draped messy on his shoulder. Cluster of children prudent distance away, holding one another tight, staring unsettled.

Bucky's forehead buried, face hidden between shoulders firm, claiming strength he believed beyond his own. Body warmth grounding fingers wrapped immovable into a waistband, metal sensors ticking silent, a heartbeat found impossible in spine's curve. Needing that pulse, that heat, a body cherished barring his view, keeping him safe; vision insecure despite solemn promise. Steve reassuring, "They're just kids, that's all."

The group standing ragged and worn, Bucky certain their looks accusing, no doubt, lost souls seeing his truth, his blame, his part in their pain. How he let them down, not these specific maybe; all connected he knew, believed, karma nipping hard at his heels, held at bay by Steve.

"You can look," a whisper again, maybe heard, sounds dulled by trains rattle and the ringing eternal in Bucky's hearing. A gaze locked down on bare toes curled chilled against damp wood, frigid air swirling around ankles, floor gaps open as the train sped forward. Hard to look, to let a gaze connect with eyes meant to be bright innocent now staring dull, trust stolen maybe more.

Steve, reaching back, tug on a sweater, grab a hip, slide aside, wanting Bucky to face his fear, trust his words, "Come on, look at them."

Bucky not allowing eyes to fall on what a mind said was real, heart convinced of apparitions, memory conjuring first mission, blood spilled forever on his skin. A breath pulled seconds slow, a tremor jerking Steve closer, not wanting them to hear pulse's thud to ribs, a thought irrational his gaze meeting theirs, would tear a heart from chest beating. Time passing interminable waiting for voices garbled or pain fired terrifying, to overtake his body, steal his thoughts, aftermath guaranteed when his past manifested. Gut rolling in a tremor dread familiar, vision blurring a figure accusing faint herald of a seizure flirting too close.

Steve's turn to catch a waist, slow dance maneuvered, pull him from safe space behind, "Come on, help me talk to them." A hand gentle, soft cupping a face, breath warm, blue eyes softest look reassuring, "This is what you wanted, right? To save them? First thing, you gotta look at them."

Gaze slow rise to meet Steve's, Bucky letting hands trusted move his body to stand side by side, lift his face. A thumb callused pulling tears from eyes red swollen, meeting a look telling all he needed to know, not alone, hands and voice reliable real. Forehead pressing his temple, arm circling a waist, body engulfing undeniable, not leaving him to face guilt and fear and accusations haunting. Steve's whisper doting tender, "They're not afraid of you."

Air pulled in ragged at first, deeper with each breath urging tremors to dissipate under a caress reassuring. Steve's watching intense, eyes saying words held back, Bucky seeing it indisputable. Daring a look tenuous, letting gaze move from Steve's face, skin smoothed gentle, slightest of nods toward a silent gathering three strides away, not ghosts or demons demanding retribution. Steve slipping behind Bucky, heartbeat throbbed chest to back, arm's strength not letting go, encircling tight bound, keeping weakened knees from a buckle, not letting him fall.

Bucky facing six children close gathered, not a sound coming from mouths tight-lipped. Eye's stare direct, bolder than expected for souls locked hidden, cold-huddled in a cell beyond a wall fractured by his fist. Sun's rise filtering soft light in the car, wide swatch laid across the floor, reflecting on bare legs thin, shoes weathered by wear, Bucky's vision adjusting closer scrutiny of faces, expressions not afraid, more curious subdued. One look clearer than the rest, round cheeks ruddy tone, challenging gaze bordering defiant, a connection made in the dining car hours earlier, the spiky-haired boy offering hint of a smirk when their eyes connected. Warmth sparked tiny flame in a gut churned apprehensive, Bucky wanting to smile, acknowledge the boy, a nod slight, maybe awkward, the best he could muster.

The boy responding a modicum braver, hand's slow rise as if in a wave, hesitant at first appearing shy. More fearless as elbow bent and fingers spread wide, a gesture universal as he curled a thumb then three fingers to leave the middle one extended, look of defiance not a debate any longer. His disdain stated bright in eyes, crooked smile, and a finger's clear message.

"Friend of yours?" Steve's laugh infused in his voice, soft-spoken at Bucky's ear, chin resting playful nuzzled. Tense tremors receding in the warmth of arms wrapping from behind, hands spread tight possessive to chest and belly, Bucky letting head fall back to rest grateful nestled cheek to cheek.

"Spring cleaning." Tony Stark channeling energy anxious, spilling irreverent, "Amazing what you find when you finally empty out the Tupperware bins." Back tensed rigid straight, words rapid-fire distracting from a question not ready yet to ask, "Mismatched socks, Dad's old pocket watch." Skin's twitch right eye hidden by glasses shaded, face an animated deception, "Family photos, me on a pony, me in a pedal car, me not with my father," a hand wave cavalier, memories brushed aside. A pause dramatic, tone morphed serious, playful turn of mouth, eye's brightness disappearing, "Faded pictures of you, a woman and a Soldier." Words spoken precise, "A very specific Soldier."

Tony placing palms flat on wood thick varnished dark and bright, swirled stains hinting stories not spoken aloud. Eyes squinting the requisite skeptical, meeting the Architect's gaze beady, eyes set too close at least in Tony's mind. Ivan Petrovich standing direct across the bar, hands laid flat, a mirrored image unnerving, stirring feet to shuffle weight, elbow glancing the bar awkward, not wanting to see even a glimmer of himself in that old man. Tony letting righteous heat course heady through his veins, low simmered rage against the Architect meeting his stare unrepentant proud; a man he saw as evil, all data being weighed, history unearthed, questions gnawed unanswered.

Petrovitch unwavering, gaze locked cold, near a wax figure in Tony's estimation, not a twitch or twinge, breath so steady it seemed imperceptible. A voice female coming from the end of the bar, tone soft, still conveying firm conviction, "You came all this way to speak of faded snapshots?"

"I'm sorry I didn't get your name." Tony breaking the stare to glance pointed at the woman, his guide, slim build, dark dressed pristine, blonde hair obedient to her grooming; his smile conservative warm.

Her look to the old man a definite question, his nod a faint assent, her answer a flat statement returning Tony's gaze, "You may call me, Irina."

"Nice to meet you, Irina. And yes, I came all this way to talk about old pictures." Tony letting seconds pass, a laugh breathed short, his gaze shifting back to Petrovitch, a shrug deferential, "And get some answers, about the past, and who knew who, when and where and maybe a why or two. Maybe renew old friendships. Or not." Finger's tap on a temple, skimming glasses rim, data flashing discreet for his eye alone. Demeanor curious cautious, befitting his guise, an entrepreneur seeking to renew old ties familial. In truth, a mask hiding a more profound ache, churning belly, tightened grip of a heart's unnatural glow.

A role not shared open in this room, not yet, pain splinted with a front cavalier; a son obsessed, rumination taking days and sleep, questions unanswered about a father's past. Pictures dug from vaults avoided, Tony not wanting to know, to open wounds closed, not healed. Images time-faded brown edges curled, names, and dates needing technology's persuasion to be read. Leading him here, to Moscow, old Hydra certain, facing Petrovitch, "It's a small world after all," sing-song annoyance flirting with his focus.

Gaze darting, edged nervous clandestine to a table within a quick lunge's distance, lamp casting a pool yellowed soft across red leather, the black star reflecting light's caress its gentleness not fitting the history contained. The book still under Tony's eye possessive, the table flanked close by two bodies, one tall, suit's fit letting more white cuff show than current fashion would approve; the partner squat with a vest, buttoned crooked comical, testament to a rush from a snore open-mouthed, or a chair over-stuffed musty, alone with his thoughts and a rye fermented beer.

Stark taking in the Old World décor, reconnaissance disguised casual: drapes curved thick brocade framing a window over-sized, metal grate barring beyond heavy lace. Walls graced with linen paper, keen eye catching edge curled worn, floor to a height fitting a man short-stature, a doorway not well hidden to vision F.R.I.D.A.Y. enhanced. Faint blip of red light shimmering masked behind a mirror gold-gilded frame garish, a wink not that subtle for the camera hidden slow panning the room, recording their encounter.

Suited men nondescript, shifting in the room clinging to the shadows, their steps silent absorbed by a carpet ancient plush, their movement caught suspicious in Tony's peripheral vision. Distracted by aromas wafting light to strong, sour to sweet preceding slender figures, young women waif-thin eyes-demure bringing silver trays, laden Russian fare, opulent arranged between two rivals facing off. Stark letting alertness flow a touch irreverent, "Food, a good sign, right? Shared meals, bury the hatchet, minds meeting over the pelmini and ikra," a grandiose wave of a hand, "Kumbaya as we say in the West." His turn to the woman quick playful despite a returned smile polite if not confused, "Do you say that here? No? You should."

A man towering next to Petrovitch, broad-built, the words "Mack" and "Truck" coming to Tony's mind, stern look a challenge not that subtle, a cold-embracing dare. Fingers thick, a hand gross large, placing a bottle clear liquid swirling, frost dampening the label, succumbing to room's heat; two tumblers firm thudded on the bar. The guard's dutiful step back measured exact arm's reach of his master, not breaking the glare towards Stark dripping animosity, met by a smile deflective.

Tony shifting focus, eyes meeting with Ivan Petrovitch near enough to see white-lined scar across a cheek, faded story piquing interest; their face-off implied feet wide-set, hands in the open, shoulders square. Thoughts meandering absurd conjured from a movie viewed middle of a sleepless night: Western town, streets cleared, onlookers lined either side, a single tumbleweed blown erratic through the scene. Image discarded to contemplate the target of his current obsession. A man commanding all attention, white shirt crisp starched nearly immobile, gold ring glinting in soft light pooled along the bar. He reached a steady hand pouring one shot of the Vodka then a second, a smile not quite warm as he pointed to the glass, then lifted his own. Eyes intense watching Tony reluctant hesitant, following his lead.

A second held suspended before Petrovitch spoke formal, close to terse, "Za vstrechu," Irina providing the translation, "To our meeting." Tony nodding agreement as he followed example set, the shot downed quick and raw and cold. Refrigeration making no dent in the vodka's burn, Tony likening it to lava's slow descent searing a layer of esophagus as the thick liquid slid down insidious.

"Bez pereryvov," Irina's demand echoing despite the room's luxurious setting. "No breaks, Mr. Stark, second drink down it right away." Another shot no pause, Tony obedient swallowing.

Petrovitch reaching for a dish, fingering a pickle, long and green and thin, a bit obscene in Tony's estimation, dripping juice errant falling not daring to spill on a tie tucked neat. A testament to the old man's command of the room, even the pickle bowing subservient, swallowed whole. More disturbing was the offer insistent, the pickle dish thrust not tantalizing under Tony's nose, his shivered review acknowledging sour taste cutting vodka's burn.

"Tvoe zdorovi," A voice graveled crude, coming from the guard, features a hard challenge, gauntlet metaphorical slapping a palm print bright crimson to both of Tony's cheeks. Petrovitch providing neat English, "To your health," as he downed another drink.

Tony following again, the shot slipping smoother, "My health is fine, so far, mostly, heart's ticking, a little bit of lumbago otherwise fine."

A series of toasts ensuing, the shot glasses brim filled repeated despite Tony's hand placed to block the flow. Each toast in Russian, translated by Irina, her smile seeming genuine, perhaps more amused at his hands gripping bar's edge for steady. That damned old man smiling thin line smirk at his discomfort betrayed by a beaded sweat perched precarious on a mustache groomed otherwise exact.

Petrovitch announcing with a near reverent tone, words spaced with deference in English exact, "To the dogs." Glass held high, sweeping gesture towards a far wall, two dogs large lounging, drool pooling on a carpet laid particular.

Tony's nod and salute grandiose towards the massive dark-fur creatures, a debate internal if they were bears masquerading as canines, unnervingly attentive to his deliberate moves, "Good doggies, no Milk Bones sorry, maybe next time or, I could have them flown in? Local, maybe?" Cold vodka welcomed slipping easier down a throat numbed insensitive.

A pause in the toasting and drinking, each man, taking a breath long, Petrovitch picking selective at food bite-sized, Tony engaged in a poking study of a breaded meat pie. "Za raditeley," the old man catching his attention, gaze direct, glass raised equidistant between them, a clear ask for agreement. Switching words to English, a gesture slight to gain Tony's compliance, "To our parents."

Stark letting a thin smile spread uneven, glass raised, cautious trying not to spill a drop, buying time and thought and a measured response wrapped in his truth, "To Maria Stark. To my mother."

A restrained facade slipping shaken, a touch, slight tremor seen in a finger marked with a crown inked black. The Architect's features moved to a smile fleeting genuine for a second, indiscretion caught, reined in, he downed the vodka without a word or a nod or eyes flickering sympathetic.

"Speaking of questions." Tony seeing a chance slim, senses not as muddied by alcohol as he may have led them to believe, "You knew my father. How? What brought you together? Weapons, cars, women? All of the above." His lean across the bar intrusive enough to bring a guard's thick arm as a barrier before the Architect's body," Did you two share a vision of a future full of hope? Or was it more like world domination?"

Petrovitch meeting his gaze, taking the vodka one quick swallow, tumbler's hard thud to the bar. Fingers toying with gold ring unconscious, first hint of his discomfort, fleeting gone while brushing aside dismissive the guard's protective stance.

"Let's drag out the old photos, shall we?" Tony pulling a faded picture from jacket's inside pocket, "Help me understand this snapshot. I dug it out of a ratty suitcase, back of my old man's closet. Not really, close, though. Here look at it," frail paper, scalloped edges slapped abrupt on the bar's surface, turned deliberate to fall within the Architect's view, pushed forward insistent.

Vodka poured and ready, Tony raising the glass, middle finger jammed angered on a figure in the picture. Black leather distinct, long-haired, expression empty, maybe scared or hopeless, those options not allowed to float annoying into his consciousness, words rasped sarcastic, "Let's toast the Winter Soldier, your star pupil. Yes?" The shot downed decisive, back of hand wiping lips wet.

Petrovitch not answering, his gaze never wavering from Tony's face, dark eyes narrowing, amusement cast aside.

Tony pouring thick liquid sloppy, one for each, loud announcing grand sweep of an arm, drops spilled careless, "To the Owner's Manual," his glass raised towards red leather, black star lying incongruous, commanding all attention. Petrovitch watching impassive, not joining in his toast.

Stark not relenting elbows laid rude to the bar his finger tracing a fourth person in the photo, part hidden by the scenery, face blurred by time or purposeful erased, "Who is this man right here in the background? In that god-damned picture of you and that woman and that, that piece of shit?"

The Architect, not one to be cowed or bullied, or afraid of a ranting threat grief-driven, having seen more rage than Stark could channel; his face placid unreadable, no smirk or wink or nod acknowledging what Tony had guessed intuitive. His glance slight, a finger raised and lowered precise signaling servants to leave, their scurry from the room nearly soundless. Except the thick-fingered guard; and the dogs, they stayed in place, rising to a sit attentive.

"Fine, no idea? Okay," Tony's anger evident, a tremor to mouth and hand, spitting words curt, "Let's try this question. Did you send that sorry piece of shit to kill my parents? Was it you?"

A response near expected, Petrovitch staring frigid, tumbler turned hard upside down, no toast, no words, curt gesture dismissive, a snarl to lips thin, not hidden, maybe eyes rolling slight.

Tony taking his cue, breath drawn deep, hand raking hair messy, a turn towards the book lying unguarded, "Worn out my welcome apparently. My accent might be off, give me credit for trying, Vsego khoroshego, did I say that correctly?" Quick tucking the red leather book inside his jacket, a wave of fingers irreverent as he headed for the door, providing what he felt was a close translation of his toast, "All the best." His exit stopped by the guard wide-bodied, pudgy fingers, blocking his path.

The Architect speaking reserved, more a warning than a story, "A Russian tale for you, Mr. Stark." His steps towards Tony a measured threat, not warm inviting, ending within an arm's reach daring. Head tilting up in deference to height's difference, gaze colder than any Stark had seen in recent years, even that gaze on the tape played incessant, gray eyes empty in the killing of his parents. English words, hinted accent waking him from the memory haunting, "There once was a flock of birds, all flying as one, tight-knit working together on tasks that benefited all. Each bird working diligent for the greater community." A pause to make his point, glancing a fond caress towards the dogs their fealty proven in the wag of their tails.

The story continued without looking at Tony, "One day the collective, the flock, decided to move on, change for the betterment of all, but one bird thought he knew better. He took what he felt was his, the work shall we say, and started to fly off on his own." A gesture subtle, hand's wave a flutter, "Little pathetic wings flapping hard and fast, heading for the sun." Petrovitch pacing a circle towards dawn's light a sliver through lace curtains, a toe kicking at the red-hued carpet, dust swirling bright golden. "The sun burned him, of course, his life - and love, destroyed for want of high ideals, and a spotlight's shine." Steps ending at his beginning, standing before Stark's firm stance. The Architect's eyes closing as if in memory, reciting a mantra near a whisper, long-ingrained, "Let not one of us break away from the collective."

Tony holding back from mocking words or a smirk ill-timed, close study of the man's features, skin leathered over time, malevolence wafting mingled with the scent of old leather, starch, and hair's slick oil. Heart's pulse thick at temples, twinged pain across a forehead, stiffening a neck with story's implications, settling real over seconds. Discretion and a plan morphing as he stood, watching Petrovitch near enough to strike, the gauntlet's tickle imagined at his wrist, worth the risk, dogs and men and camera's spying. A rage kept guarded in check, ever since the silo's aftermath, still simmering raw beneath work and life and a facade of moving on. Raising heat to skin and brain, fists closing, jaw set tight, thoughts rational scattering fast; attention caught by Irina's voice, light touch to his arm raised tense without his awareness, anger-driven near an error rash.

"Mr. Stark, you've had a long journey. You'll stay with us," a tugged encouragement to an elbow, resisting, "You will find no better accommodations in all of Moscow." Thin fingers, nails manicured clean blood-red color, palm open before his chest, finger's graze against the hardbound book tucked in his pocket, a demand masked as a request, "We will relieve you of your burden, a book with such a dark history weighs heavy on your grief. Let us help you."

Tony shook his head, patting the book tucked safe against his chest, curt laugh, sharp words, "Sentimental value, I'd rather keep it close, we can review it together."

Ivan Petrovitch, back turned to Tony, hands dug deep in the fur of heads massive, seeking his touch, "You don't trust me, Mr. Stark?"

Tony answering, "You don't trust me, Mr. Petrovitch?"

The Architect countering, "You are not in a position to bargain, Mr. Stark." Pale finger's caress of fur affectionate.

All attention rapt on Tony's hand slipping reticent inside jacket's pocket, slow pull of the book, a thumb's cautious caress across a black star. Muscle's twitch at jaw, lips drawn into a thin line as the book passed from his hand to Irina's, "Trust is mutual, Mr. Petrovitch. I trust we will come to a mutual understanding.

A grin wide victorious, flash of gold on a tooth, Ivan Petrovitch shoulder's less tense, step lighter as he strode to leave the room, a wave cavalier over his shoulder, "Na pososhok, Mr. Stark, may your walking stick be imbued with luck, as we say here in Russia." His laugh bold enough to send a cold chill across Tony's skin, "We will talk more. This has been quite entertaining. You are not your father, Mr. Stark. Not him indeed."

A low growl greeting Tony's steps gingerly crept past massive creatures fur tumultuous mingled hard to tell where one dog began, and another ended; their teeth visible distinct enough, message received. Following two men, solemn looks, muscle-bound, through a door ornate and over-sized. Tony debating macabre humor if the guttural sound came from one of them or one of the dogs. Pacing dutifully forward content with his plan debatable sane and free-wheeling, infiltrate the last bastion of Hydra hidden in the grandiosity of Moscow.

Quick tap to his watch, a text clandestine pre-written, time calculated to the second, hitting send: "Barnes, you pathetic excuse for a human being. Timetable's moved up. Cut the damn sight-seeing trip and get off that train." The message rhythmic ticking numbers across a thousand miles, Tony's voice sounding mechanical annoying on the other end of the line, "Forty-seven hours, thirty-two minutes, seventeen seconds, sixteen, fifteen..."

"Fuck, how did he know? How? I don't get it." Bucky head down, mumbling at his phone, awkward stumbled through a passenger car, occupants starting awake. Steps rocked by train's brake, slowing for a station, scrambling dance to not fall over the spiky-haired boy, cheeks ruddy, a touch of cold driven snot hanging stubborn; a face not so angelic staring up at Bucky's sidelong avoidant assessment, squinty-eyed debate, real or a ghost. A nose wiped clean on his sweater, settling that question.

The boy, a flotsam barnacle, latched onto his hip after the middle finger greeting, not a willing attachment on his part; rasped question to Steve, "Why me? I'm not that friendly. At all." Hesitant effort to pry fingers from his body, a battle futile fought. Bucky's groaned capitulation loud petulant as he maneuvered the aisles with the boy near dragging from his hip. Steve's smile stifled long, laughter breathed discreet, still heard and duly noted for future bickering.

The rest of their new-found charges gathered in a nervous shuffle engulfing Steve; frail hands clinging desperate to one another, all leading to the eldest, blonde braids, tall and thin, strength beyond her years worn on features and a body erect defiant. Steve's jacket hanging oversized from her shoulders squared protective of the group. Their guards left imprisoned; two Vory hungover more from sausage than from vodka, easy marks to overpower. A woman bristling efficient, weary appearance a deception, her fight an unexpected match, leaving a red lined scar on Bucky's cheek; soft kissed by Steve despite protests shrugged aside embarrassed.

Bucky taking satisfaction in the sound of metal clanging to metal, strength wrapping a pipe as a lock to cell's door, imprisoning the children's wardens. Guilt's burden a fraction lighter as he ripped the keypad from train car's door, leaving them to a fate harsh deserved, a lesson he knew, taught by experience brutal.

Steve balancing a toddler in one arm, nimble enough to lay hand's warmth on Bucky's neck, a lean possessive over a shoulder, glancing at the phone, "Who? Knows what? What are you talking about?"

"Stark, he's texted me. He says, 'Get off the train' How did he know?" Fingers twisting anxious in hair, feet shuffled indecisive, rasping panic tone, close spoken to Steve's ear, "Is he tracking me? I ditched the jet. My phone, shit, he's tracking my phone. Fuck me."

Steve grabbed his arm, hard tug keeping him near, "We talked to him at the station, it was loud, it was obvious. So what." Body jerked closer, whisper gritted, "I won't let him hurt you."

Bucky studying the phone, a lean into Steve's shoulder, needing his touch, warmth consoling, gaze connecting three seconds counted internal, shift to the phone, pale light casting a shadow across eyes puffed red, "Time frame, shit. He moved it up." A pause, thoughts churning, a whisper spilled for himself, "I gotta go."

"Go, yes. Home. We're going home." Steve maneuvering forward, search for Natasha, close eye on children underfoot, attention caught rapt protective, Bucky's tremor more pronounced, his focus scattering past the phone, to a child viewed foreign or haunting or forgotten underfoot. Steve worried for the boy, tight clinging to Bucky's leg. Thoughts distracted by toddler's tears slipping, sound not more than a whimper, thin arms tight wrapping a neck, breath choked slight, "Time frame? What time frame?" Bucky wriggling arm free from a hand owning, Steve's grab for a jacket abrupt, gripping catch stubborn not letting his squirm escape.

Natasha weaving through passengers waking backs stretched, blankets shed and folded, her navigating bodies, baggage, and trash over-flowing. Getting close enough to see them both, ragged group of children surrounding, her chiding a comfort in Steve's comm, "I can't leave the two of you alone for more than five minutes. Or six minutes in your case Barnes." A nod to Bucky as she settled too close by his side, crowded car demanding.

"Doesn't matter. Shit," Bucky scrolling phone's messages, "There's a ton of these things, what is this?" Sudden video garish loud red bird singing something incomprehensible. "Stupid Birdman, what the fuck?" Fingers press and slide, trying to stop the sound, images flashing chaotic rattling nerves strung out, a tremor uncontrolled heralding worse. Final plea, "Here, take this, take it, I can't," shoving it against Steve's chest.

Tasha's quick reach missing, the phone tumbling erratic to the floor, sliding lost beneath feet shuffling. Frantic words and motion stopped split second, Bucky's frustration caught by Steve's fingers digging deeper into flesh, worry worn on features tired. Bucky rattled by his look, urgent press of a hold telling of concern; stammering escape, "I'm sorry. Sorry," twisting arm until he slipped from hand's grip.

Steve grabbing Bucky's hood, sway and brake of the car rocking feet, the station coming into view; people swarming around, bumping between arms and legs, bags crashing, tearing them apart. Bucky squirming crowd's press, the boy wrapping arms frightened to a thigh, two jostled ignored by the crowd. Steve watching skin beloved going pale, gray eyes wide anxious, maybe fear, body's twisting to break his hold building harder. Ache rising in chest, the toddler holding tight, sensing Steve's worry; bodies crowded pushed and shoved, space taken against their will. Hard to see Bucky's face any longer, lost in the swarm. Dragging on a sliver of cloth, the hood sudden tearing, abrupt break, Steve staggering back, backpack's thud to a floor, jacket empty hanging in his hand. Steve's voice cracked loud and deep and meaning every word, "No. Get back here. Do not move from that spot, Buck. I'm coming to you. Stand still."

Toddler snatched from Steve's arms by Natasha, deft scooping the backpack as well, quick trailing Steve's anxious push through the crowd, "Rogers, I see him, he's right there."

Train jolting to a stop, passengers swarming, Steve turned to slip past a man rotund, a woman carrying bags heavy laden, his trip over a box making him stumble into a small open space. Final clear view, the boy enamored still clinging to a hip, face buried in the sweater, tucked hidden behind Bucky standing stone still in the aisle. Long hair faint shaken, near covering features from the side, head tilted down, engrossed with a woman near, too near for Steve, cold sweat springing to neck. The old Widow, smile smug disconcerting, arrogant watching Steve coming closer, too late, gnarled fingers gripping Bucky's phone.

A voice soft-spoken known, hard to hear across train's noise, talk passing, Steve not sure at first, Bucky's words forming slow reliable from a mist of disbelief, settling in a mind caught off-guard, "Call them." Mother's compliance gleeful efficient, done and done, phone shoved decisive against Bucky's chest. Dark eyes shine of satisfaction, winning in her mind, taunting icy glare, meeting Steve's gaze. Hard to snare pain's ache from features, not wanting her to see heart's break on a call, decision made, not quick enough to keep Bucky safe.

Heat's rush coloring cheeks and chest and thoughts burning angered, Steve reaching Bucky, a dodging wrestle to see his face, Mother shoved back to a berth, body's momentum near lifting Bucky from his feet. Natasha snatching the boy from their struggled stumble to train car's wall. Steve demanding, "What did you do?" Bucky averting gaze, head turned reluctant, holding the phone from Steve's reach. Rough shake of a body, fingers wrapping a jaw, forcing head up, gaze downcast pulled direct, voice rasped desperate to a cheek, "Buck, what the hell did you do?"

Bucky taking time, breath shallow pulled, tremor faint, not controlled, hiding what tears might be left, not wanting Mother to see, or feel or gloat unrepentant over feelings soul-deep. A whisper against Steve's mouth, lips not meeting, ached want of the kiss; not here, not now, "It's done. They're on their way. Just get those kids out of here."

Steve catching Bucky's face, needing eyes to meet, see his face, force truth spilled, wanting Bucky to see and feel and know the wave of anger choking breath, strangling a voice, "Look at me. Call them back. I won't let you do this. We found the children. Let's go home."

"No. Don't you get it? There are more. It's real, Steve. I have to do this. I have no choice." Bucky wriggling free from Steve's grip, lingering hand peeled reluctant from sweater's weave, heart pulsing temple and throat, not wanting to leave, to pull free from arms engulfing. Sokolov stepping in front, sharp look over her shoulder, Bucky falling obedient behind, steps dragged, making his way to the stairs. Door open passengers departing, the platform looming below; a step held in check letting frigid air pull tears from eyes, maybe not cold drawn. A hand known trusted catching hair long, head tugged back, Steve's mouth pressed to neck's nape. Last thing Bucky wanted to do, step off that train, leave a body warm protective. Leaning back, skin taking the kiss, memory burning that feel electric to a mind searching for safe, words not matching heart and sinew falling into that embrace, "Let me go."

Steve's eyes blinking shut, seconds stolen before allowing slow release of hair, fingers entwined. Quick rush to stay close, hovering steps danced angered around Bucky's steady walk forward, "I'm going with you."

"No, you're not." Bucky's answer decisive, stride picking up speed. Medication bottles dragged from a pocket, one from each of three, pills swallowed dry, the bottles shoved apprehensive in Mother's hands. Leaning close to her face, menace sincere, "You will give these to me. Understood. Do not fuck with me." A command met by thin smile noncommital, metal fingers snagging her collar, shaking a nod, semblance of agreement.

Steve pushing her aside, fingers wrapping Bucky's arms, flesh, and metal, pulling close, breath hot on a cheek pinked cold, "You're trusting her now? With the meds? You're out of your mind."

"That is true. Isn't that why I take them? I'm out of my mind." Bucky searching the sky, gaze avoidant, pain too great to see in Steve's eyes; words matter-of-fact, "They are gonna strip me naked. They'll take everything. No sense bringing anything with me." Body shaken by Steve's hands and a growl morphed to a moan. Bucky forced to look, let eyes connect, breath catching on a sob controlled, guilt fueling words taken back, not wanting Steve to know what would happen in minutes coming, "Sorry, sorry. Nevermind. Forget I said any of that. She'll protect me, I swear, we both want this. She wants the Architect dead too." Grabbing Steve's waist, hard tug near, rasping, "They aren't going to let me have those pills. It's better if she has them, I have to trust her." Cold air forming breath's evidence soft, slow release, gaze close search of Steve's face, "Besides, I should be good for a couple days without them. It's all good, Stevie. All good."

"Stop it." Steve wrapping fingers to a neck, caress stolen open, thumb's rake of stubble.

Bucky's beg shivered in wind's gust, "Do this for me. Please, just let me go. Take care of the kids."

Steve insisting, quick scan of the sky, gaze back to study Bucky's face near enough to see fading scratch, "Tasha's got this, the kids, getting them out. She has contacts. I'll go with you both. We'll think of something."

Bucky tugging flesh arm free, not wriggling enough to break Steve's hold, "No, no, you're not. I told you, you're not getting anywhere near him."

"There's no way…"

Anger flaring, Bucky's hard shove, words spit real threat, "Steve, I don't need you. Get the fuck away from me."

Steve's balance, soul, and heart and feet rocked backward, not expecting this rejection. Scrambling back, Bucky's arms captured, forced dance tangled, "Bullshit, pal. Push all you want." Their wrestle teetering on a fall, hands on biceps, lifting, lunging, driving Bucky back to train's side, Steve's voice raw, rasped to a cheek, heart-pounding heat to skin shared, "I'm not leaving you."

Bucky squirming, not enough to break a hold cherished, trusted hands needed; awareness ticking a clock internal, stay committed to decisions made rash. Pressure building in a mind disorganized, Cyrillic words spilling angered uncontrolled, tone harsh, features morphing distorted, string of expletives rapid fire.

"I don't need Google to translate that shit," Steve not letting go of Bucky struggling out from under his weight laid claiming.

Mother rapping a foot to train car's side, close startle, "Stop it. Your ridiculous fight is drawing attention..."

Steve's gaze locked on Bucky, words growled decisive, "Get the fuck away from us," understood by Sokolov as she meandered not far, moved obedient.

Bucky letting head fall back to cold metal, breath staggered resigned, "You won't fight me, not really. I will fight you. Don't make me." Flesh hand catching Steve's cheek, fingers tangled in hair, words secret measured cadence weighed meaning raw, "I need to walk in there being someone else, something else. A thing. Not me. I can't do that if you're watching me. I can't be that monster with you there. I'll stumble, my hand will shake, my mind will falter." A thumb's slow drag to lips parting, stolen wetness from tongue and teeth willing open, "I'll think about your mouth, your fucking cock buried inside my body, the way you make me sweat. I'll hear that sound you make when you come. I can't have that kind of memory facing that man. I can't. Lubov moya, moy medved, please stay away from me. He'll kill you. I won't be able to kill him with you watching."

Steve letting tight grip fall slack, palms spread to a chest, their struggle waning, breath slowing resigned, unable to make his gaze leave Bucky's face.

Writhing struggle half-hearted, words finished, Bucky's deliberate pull of the sweater over his head, excruciating slow, short-sleeved T-shirt non-descript, metal arm brazen open, a shiver cold in biting Siberian wind. Folding the weave best effort sincere, ending with a ball rolled messy, pressed firm to Steve's chest, "Hold this for me. I'll lose it. Okay?"

Steve catching hair, a tug more tender than rough, needing soft feel on skin, a murmur private to an ear, "I hate you," face buried in thick darkness, needing scent fire branded to memory.

A laugh sighed soft, "No, you don't," metal patting a cheek affectionate. "Stay with the kids. When you get to Moscow, call this guy." Bucky keying a number into his phone, tucked into Steve's pant's pocket, fingers digging deeper, hard caress dared to hip, brushed to groin, mouth pressed light to mouth, "Tell them, tell them you have a delivery, you need pick up. They'll send a van. You know what to do after that. Just get them out. Get yourself out."

"What about you? How will you get out? How will I find you?" Steve gripping hair harder, rough jerk, fingers catching jean's waistband, body pulled insistent, needing a plan, an answer, not letting things play out random. "I hate this plan. Your plan, you suck at this."

Bucky prying fingers free from body and hair carded, "This is mine to do. Alone. Let me do what I have to do, Rogers. Let me do this, please. It isn't always about you. Captain fucking America. You don't always win the day, swoop in the big damn hero. You are a hero. I'm not. I'm just, just a loser trying to do one right thing."

"You're not a loser."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the voice in my head."

Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky's neck, fingers taking skin, palm spread to the small of a back, breath hungered warm to an ear, holding him cherished, a sigh deep and long, rage and love and fear mingled irrational, a whisper, "He's not a loser. I'll kick your ass if you say otherwise."

Bucky's laugh soft settling in Steve's memory, "Did you just threaten the Voice in my head?"

"Yes. Yes, I did." Steve pressing forehead to forehead, eyes locked, want and need, and hope clear conveyed, "Come back to me."

"You're not making this easy."

"Good, don't' go, stay with me."

"I don't want to go. They're coming. I can hear the chopper." Reluctant wriggling free, cold air slipping between bodies.

A hand pressing Bucky to the car, keeping him in place, "Yeah, I hear it." Steve reached for the jacket dropped at his feet, slow tugging one sleeve over flesh, tender wrapping shoulders, moving a body compliant, "It's cold, too cold. Wear it, put it the fuck on." Abrupt jank over metal fingers, breath caught at Bucky's pull of air, a moan tickling memories of sex only minutes before, Steve grousing, "Give me that, that one thing. To take care of you, one..."

Bucky cutting him off, "Jeezus Rogers, you're so sappy."

Zipper pulled snug to chin, cloth smoothed loving to a chest, rise, and fall distinct, telling hard to breath without falling apart. Steve pressing foreheads tight, skin blanched white, marked red, breath and time and touch held still desperate clinging.

Bucky's ask soft-spoken, "Don't watch me leave. Close your eyes. Don't turn around, give me that. Okay?"

A nod hard to see more felt skin to skin, lips brushed, stealing taste, Steve reticent letting eyes shut, still facing the train, spirit slipping resigned.

Bucky pushing past, metal fingers drag up an arm, flirting caress to a hip, a back, smallest touch fired hot until last step taken, too far to keep connected. His whisper more a breath, a sigh light, nearly mistaken aberrant noise wind carried, swirling snow and sound and wishes kept secret, "I love you." Steps double-quick silent, moving swift and far, iced air filling the space between body heat warmed seconds earlier.

Steve opening eyes, vision blurred, wind and cold, and tears mingled. Too late for Bucky to hear, regret a fire in gut wild racing across sinew and nerve, flushing heat to chest, shame burning cheeks and throat and heart, words breathed his hearing alone, "I love you back." Steve turned slight, enough to see sidelong, too painful to watch full-on, a promise made, broken both knowing fated to break. Bucky walking away rolling gait uneven, the Soldier's stride deliberate growing with every step, the Widow near running alongside, Steve taking a sliver of solace at her discomfort. Bucky fading in snow driven harsh across wind-swept expanse concrete and dirt and a past haunted returning vivid real.

A mind searching for solace tends to assign significance to things irrational.

The parking lot empty except for a truck, and a wagon, missing its horse. A cluster of three cars sitting near enough to speculate year and make, all dark and small and at least from the 1960s as best Bucky could recall, memory being such as it is, cryo occupying most of the sixty's and seventy's technically speaking.

The truck distinct with rickety slatted sides and one significantly flat tire. A bonus for Bucky. Needing all things to fall obsessive into a set order, three tires vastly qualifying. One less thing driving sweat's cold drip down his back. A Soldier's certainty telling he'd find the keys tucked in the visor. Not that it mattered; with the flat and all.

Creative stretch to find a three relative to the cart, he thought he could discern three planks composing its side. "Close enough," he thought, "Close enough."

The cart wearing blue paint, flaked and dull, a not so educated guess that it was reasonably garish popular in 1974. He didn't actually remember that year, it just sounded like maybe it was a good year for bright blue paint. And, well, it is divisible by three, after all. That counts a lot at times like these. Facing his fate. His plan. The one he stood in silence second-guessing.

In the distance, beyond the truck and cart and three cars, a couple of dogs mock fighting over a three-foot stick. The two dogs dissonant in his counting, a hiccup in a mind struggling stable, saved by a sound, a bark far distant fitting his scheme, three dogs, two close one far, all good. A sigh dared to breath so soft not anyone would hear. Stick length something Bucky estimated sure but estimating, calculating, assessing; all skills he possessed, at one time anyway, well-honed in an assassin.

Even one out of practice.

Sunrise in full swing, snowbanks glistened despite a layer of soot and dirt, fallout from exhaust and home fires burned through frigid Siberian nights. White spreading vast dotted random with green, Spring's attempt to push Winter aside. Landscape dotted bright colors, chimney's swirl of smoke in early chilled air, the village at train's stop not yet bustling.

It all feeling so familiar; Bucky silent taking it in, gaze scanning casual, near leisurely, a tourist maybe, if one squinted hard. Long hair whipped across vision, jeans and boots nondescript, unlaced speaking to a rush to rise, or a Soldier well aware of what was to come. Ritual undressing. Not here, not yet, bile's rise swallowed for now. His clothes and look nothing to make him seem like his former self. Like the Winter Soldier. On the outside, anyway.

Gaze wandering a landscape cold, sights seen a thousand times before in his life with Hydra. A comfort strange now, not making sense, this place, these people, not his, not his family, his home, his history.

It shouldn't feel this way. Deep-seated in his gut, tension released, breath pulled tranquil calm, this place settling familiar as if it s was his own.

It doesn't matter in the end. Brooklyn so very far away, in miles and time and memory. Tenements creak and moan, street's rhythm wafting in open windows, faded like a dream of distant places, exotic magical, unattainable, pictures luring hopes from a magazine's pages. A place only living in his head, flashed erratic across eyes closed sleeping in the cold of cryostasis. A place unknown except in a museum.

Not a real place. Home isn't a place after all.

"It's a person." Own voice answered musings, dashing errant across a mind wanting to forget, to chase dreams and touch, and scent deeper buried locked safe away.

Home is not like here, vast expanse, bones chilled to an ache inescapable, moist breath inhaled jagged slicing lungs not use to this cold, this place; if he was ever used to this place, maybe once ages past, another life. Not this life the one he has with Steve.

"Steve?" Shove down own voice, saying a name, beloved bear. A laugh near escaping. Hold it back, think about the pain soon to come, betrayal's payment. Sobering thoughts embraced.

Distant chatter Cyrillic words, too muddy in the wind to pick the meaning. Tone clear, children's banter, a parent scolding not meant angry, more a warning, a tale told of the devil coming in the night, steal them from their home, their beds left crumpled empty to the wail of a mother deprived.

"Babayka is coming." Bucky unsure if his voice or the Voice a mocking taunt. Not mattering in the end who said what or why.

Bucky repeating that phrase over and over silent rolling in his head. Babayka. Taking it for himself, his plans, his past. A threat made to soldier's children, marching him out, displayed, used, a weapon spun inhuman, metal arm objectified, frightening the children into their obedience. Laughter mocking his discomfort echoed still in Bucky's head.

The soldier's not afraid, guns ready, stun prods, darts drugged, and dark night's visits threatened overwhelming. Control a weapon with a weapon, better yet, steal his will, taint his hope, erase his mind. Hydra not afraid of him, not since the Handler Captain, and mind wipes, cryo's cold. Not since Bucky lost his sanity.

That would change now. His plan, such as it is. They would come to be afraid. It would change, he hoped sincere, last-ditch, done, and done. Seconds dallying on an image, metal fingers tight wrapping a throat, countless times, damned to hell, countless times before. This time fingers squeezing bloody pulp around a throat deserving, the Architect in his sights.

A smile flashed slight across lips chapped cold, hid away as quick as it passed. A slip. Can't happen. Hold it all in delicate balance now. Game played harder. So much harder. Having a memory while acting as the Soldier.

Bucky staring straight ahead, not glancing up or over or down. Gaze locked distant void, nothing, empty for all close scrutiny. A rough approximation of how the Soldier would look or act or feel. Empty at casual glance, an ember's glow soft filling a belly, sparked faint in gray eyes, a heart beating rhythmic, slowing to calm at every breath, finding the Soldier buried deep in a soul lost to all redemption.

Thoughts scurrying deeper comfort, warm bed tousled, yellow house, red barn white doors, tree line deeper green than he could recall in a hundred years. Cold sweetness ghosted on his tongue ice cream, peanut butter definitely, maybe chocolate, blueberry the best. First choice. Music, big bands, swing, dark room socked feet, the only light a glow from that damn big screen TV. Steve in his arms, slow sway, one foot then another, hearing a voice, his own, undeniable, "God your heavy. Damn, you're a klutz. Shit, what am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? Steve? Steve, you didn't hear me. Wait, no, not yet. Don't take me yet. Steve?"

A sound sickening familiar overhead, swish-thunk repeated, loud and louder until papers skittered sharp, iced snow cutting cheeks, thoughts blown far and scattered by chopper's sound overwhelming, his plan falling into place. Downdraft swirling air and dirt and frozen snow biting chaotic. Gnarled hand grabbing his arm, Bucky knowing without looking, that touch, the feel, Mother steadying her feet against the wind, fierce gripping his arm. A touch too familiar rising bile, ache of nausea churning unanswered in his gut. Fleeting wonder for the Voice, burrowed somewhere cowardly in his brain. Abandoned even by that piece of shit.

"Figures."

The routine, predictable, dark-dressed men carbon-copied same across his memory, these tending disheveled, disorganized, fear glinting in eyes meeting his stare direct. A joke kept internal, wry smile hinted, "Big gun dicks." One slipping clumsy on the snow, arms splaying feet dancing awkward; Bucky squelching his laugh, guarded impassive, unaffected encouraged by a gun's cold steel barrel jammed rude beneath his jaw.

The required frisk beginning, legs rough kicked spreading, ankle's throb from steel-toed boot; jacket torn from shoulders, tossed disrespectful to the ground. A bat rapped sharp to soft tissue, pain screeching knees to hips, time passing quick as he fell body spread-eagled on the ground. Belly skin cold exposed, a shiver hard to keep controlled, hidden, don't give the fools the satisfaction. Legs kicked wide, arms spread overhead, rough hands searching intrusive, brushed bold between his thighs, balls caressed, a tremor chasing ragged across nerves raw, cold pissed. Having a memory intact, not the Soldier, not beat and trapped and agency stolen. One thought catching anger abrupt, the Architect within his reach, soon, close enough to smell the fear and blood imagined. Bucky channeling patience into a breath held long.

"What the fuck do you think I've got stashed between my balls?" Growled challenge dared, unlike his time as the Soldier, this version speaking up. The man startled enough to pull fat fingers away, a pause brief caught off guard, regrouping with a boot driven hard into a kidney left vulnerable, Bucky laid flat out arms spread, defenseless.

The Widow Sokolov not moving an inch, her observance a close watch, near enough to hear Bucky's groan. Words curt, not soft-spoken, "Enough. Would you steal pleasure from the Architect? Shall I tell him why and who harmed his prize? Or are you willing to explain to him yourself why his gift can't piss?"

Counting numbers, sets of three repeated, consoling time's passage, thoughts drifting three seconds, hope spent on Steve doing what he asked, not watching his undoing. Stomach rolling pain, nausea's race to back of throat, burning tongue, taste of bile spreading sweat's flash to cold skin. Bucky rising to his knees, not wanting to puke, pain a distraction, a risk willing to take, the Vory driving gun's butt to back of head, rude hands on a body, rough touch known, strange comfort, nothing new. These things never changing in the end.

Boots torn from bare feet, dragged to the chopper, knees ache slammed, metal floor passing, shoved, kicked, driven to a seat curled sanctuary far corner. Chains wrapped swift around ankles and wrists, secured to a waist, barrel of a gun permanent mark indented to a neck once graced with Steve's bite, faded marks gone, still imagined, ghosted press of teeth taking skin, pulled blood welted. Bucky shaking his head, chase away the thoughts, Steve's touch, lips press; breath pulled ragged sigh.

The seat next filled, feet not reaching the floor, catching his eye, side glance connecting, Mother watching, dark eyes not betraying their plan, cold look familiar, roles assumed too easy to fall back into place. Better to look away, play the part, no eye contact allowed, Bucky watching the ground fade away, the chopper gaining sky. Three cars growing smaller, cart's slats not seen at this distance, truck's tires obscured. Two dogs running side by side, one brown, one black, stick shared uneven; barking dog drowned by chopper's scream, Bucky imaging a howl, finding comfort in all things balanced neat, three and three and three.

Hair blown across vision, forget the shackles, reach to brush aside, metal catching an arm, reality washing over. A mind scrambling lost imagining better outcomes. Hide the smile, count the seconds, metal arm's strength known indisputable, eyes closing to see internal, six seconds break free, three seconds take a gun, kill one guard then another, six seconds more, eliminate the pilot, three seconds breach the door. And jump, calculated landing, tuck, and roll and run. Race hard and fast and lungs burning ache, thighs fired, scrambled slip iced patch, get up, keep running, stay the course. Catch the train. Race and run and fly back to Steve. Back to Steve. He'd be waiting on that fucking train. Go home like he said, "What was I thinking?" Heart's ache imaging, Steve watching that chopper leave, gaze rapt livid at his plan. Just how Bucky would have felt if it was Steve. "What the fuck was I thinking?" Mumbled loud enough to catch Mother's attention, fingers deep hard squeeze of a knee already throbbing with pain his cue to keep random comments to himself.

Heart sinking dark, the chopper gaining height, leaving Steve behind. Bucky's focus delving deep hidden, head pressing cold glass cool temple's sweat, falling to the comfort of the rattle, and hum and rock of being carried away. Choices made conscious still regretable. A glimpse of the train, slow movement building pulling far beyond the station, imaging Steve, awkward holding a toddler, cursing his name under breath held close. Bucky closing eyes tired, letting a mind wander indulgent for now, skin cherished seen and felt, scent still lodged in nostrils, taste lingering on lips.

Cold air's rush sending a shiver unconscious, bodies moving in the passenger bay, Cyrillic words hard to hear over chopper's blades, ear's ring, and the pounding in his head. A foot grazing bare toes, once and then again harder. An accident clumsy, third time pulling his attention, Bucky looking up, cold stared warning. Caught short unsuspecting, blue eyes staring back, sweater stained and pulled ill-fitting, a backpack familiar tucked between legs he knew too well. Steve watching him impassive, a twitch at mouth's corner, Bucky knowing that tic, telling uncertain, not able to stay behind, let him go, risking life, both lives, all lives to remain inseparable.

A nod slight, discreet, Natasha sitting next to Steve gaze darting one second to meet, then settling on the toddler asleep in her lap. Tall girl with braids tucked close to Natasha, a glance oozing disdain, chin raised haughty, playing the game. The other children piled on laps, tucked in corners. None looking at Bucky except the boy. Ruddy cheeks, hair not as spiked as when they first met the night before, his stare at Bucky cold. A gaze cutting deep, not fear or dread, that easier to take, to pass off as a compliment or a joke private held, laughter not allowed. The boy staring direct open, tight clutching Bucky's jacket rescued from the ground, words spoken bold in Cyrillic, "You lost this. I saved it for you. My name is Dima."

Bucky letting emotion show fleeting, a tremor chasing hard head to toe, rattled by the boy. Gaze slipping pointed to Steve, a stare direct, letting him see and feel and weigh a choice made last second. Anger flashing real in gray eyes, mouth's curve thin line disappointment, features morphing rapid flat, impassive, cold, true self retreating into compartments built by necessity, hiding away. Gaze returned frigid empty, slow blink to end, the Soldier leaning head to glass, watching the landscape pass beneath the chopper, heading for his fate. Meeting Ivan Petrovitch, a mantra soft internal playing on repeat, "Three children. I remember them."

" _You are so fucked, Soldat. So, so fucked."_


End file.
